It turned out not to matter.
The thing coming up behind him wasn’t human. It was only roughly man-shaped in outline, and seemed to be made of living smoke. It left misty footprints of condensation on the floor where it walked, but it passed Malden without even turning its head—assuming that lump at its top was some kind of head. It walked right past him and into the stairs and then was gone.
He had no idea what that thing had been. A demon of some manner? A ghost? A spirit of the upper air?
More to the point, had it seen him? Could it see at all? Would it warn Hazoth as to his presence? He couldn’t know. He could only hope that by keeping still and not touching the thing, he’d somehow escaped notice.
If that was incorrect, he was sure he would find out very soon.
With a shudder, he stole down the hallway, toward the gallery at its far end.
On that gallery he chanced a quick look down at the enormous sphere of iron by the grand staircase. The egg of the demon. It remained motionless and seemingly quite inert—a thin stream of powdered rust fell from one of its sides, but otherwise it could have been dead inside. That was a good sign, of course—it suggested Hazoth was as of yet unaware of his presence in the house—but he couldn’t help but associate it with what he’d seen in the locked bedroom. What he might call the birthing room.
Enough. He was frightened enough without adding to his load of troubles. A flight of stairs led up from the gallery to the third floor, and his destination. He crept up the risers, keeping close to the banister, where the steps were least likely to creak.
He didn’t have much time left, perhaps less than an hour. When Croy and the ogre were both dead, slain by Bikker if no one else (as he was certain they would be), the barrier would be closed again and he’d be trapped. It was crucial that he find the crown and escape before that happened.
Chapter Seventy-Four
Gurrh made no attempt to fight the guards, but they couldn’t harm him either. He fended off most of their attacks with ease, and when one of them did manage to strike him, he either shrugged off the blade or just laughed as if he was being tickled. From his hiding place, Croy watched Bikker get more and more red in the face.
“All of you, get out there,” Bikker ordered. The guards rushed forth as the barrier was lowered once more, all except the captain.
“But sir, why aren’t you leading the men?” the captain demanded. “Surely your sword would make short work of that thing.”
“I can’t very well abandon the house, now can I? Did it occur to you that this might be a trick? Do as you’re told.”
“Yes, sir,” the captain said, and hurried out to join his men.
Gurrh grabbed a halberd that came whistling toward his nose and snapped its haft like a twig. He buried the blade end in the grass by his feet. Its owner tried to smash at the ogre’s eyes with the broken length of wood in his hands, but to no avail.
Two of the guards got around behind the ogre to attack from the rear, but Gurrh didn’t even turn to engage them. One of them sunk a military fork into the thick matted hair near Gurrh’s spine, but the ogre only rolled his shoulders as if he were having his back scratched. The other aimed his pikestaff at Gurrh’s left kidney, and this time Gurrh did respond, but only by shifting slightly to one side so the guard staggered past him with the momentum of his charge.
The flanking maneuver was not without result, however. As Gurrh sidestepped, a guard with a glaive saw his opportunity and jabbed upward, right past the metal fencepost Gurrh was using to parry. The long curved blade of the glaive slipped through Gurrh’s defense and caromed off the giant’s cheek. A dark line of blood appeared on Gurrh’s preternaturally white skin.
Croy gasped. He’d been convinced that the ogre was invulnerable. He’d never have suggested Gurrh for this job if he’d thought there was a chance the gentle creature could be hurt. It was all he could do not to run out of hiding and rescue Gurrh from his attackers.
Not that the ogre really needed the help. Gurrh grabbed the glaive away from the retainer and threw it into the dark grass behind him. Its owner raced after it. The giant blocked two more attacks, then reached up with his free hand and patted at the wound on his face.
“Thou hast bloodied me,” the ogre said. He seemed more surprised than angered. He brought his iron spear around and put a deep notch in the wooden haft of a billhook that might have touched his chest if its wielder had been faster. “I thought it not possible.”
Croy bit his lip. The ogre’s face was his one weak spot—the one part of his body not covered by the thick protective hair. This fact was not lost on the retainers. They might be sell-swords, cheaply come by and poorly trained—but some of them, at least, were not fools.
Suddenly every attack was aimed at Gurrh’s eyes or nose or mouth. The severed end of a polearm (Gurrh had already broken off the iron blade) slammed into the ogre’s lower lip, and more blood leaked from the white flesh there. A guard with a bow started firing arrows toward Gurrh’s eyes, releasing and notching a new arrow as fast as he could. Glaive and halberd blades were jabbed and swung at Gurrh’s face with great rapidity, and it was all the ogre could do to keep them from slicing his features to ribbons.
It was time. Croy could wait no longer. He would defend his friend with his own blades. There was no curse stopping him from fighting. Malden’s original plan had required him to stay behind as a lookout while Gurrh took on Bikker and his men, but Croy refused to accept that role.
He would show Cythera what he was capable of. That she could trust him—that he could save her, and her mother, if he was just given a chance. Enough skulduggery! Enough thievery! This was work for a real knight.
Croy slipped his shortsword out of its sheath and brought it to a low ready position. He stood up from the bush where he’d been crouching like a footpad. Enough, he thought. Enough skulking, enough lurking.
It was time to fight.
Chapter Seventy-Five
Croy’s wound throbbed as he strode across the grass. It did not pain him, but only sought to remind him that he was not at the full extent of his powers.
He ignored it.
The ogre was beset now, with guards on every side trying to bring him down. They focused their attacks on his vulnerable face, and it was all the ogre could do to protect his eyes. Already he was bleeding from a dozen cuts on his cheeks and forehead.
“Enough,” Croy said, loud enough to be heard over the clamor of battle.
His announcement did not have the effect he’d hoped for.
One of the guards looked over and saw him, but the rest maintained their attack on Gurrh. Apparently the guards still thought the ogre was the main danger, even with the presence of an Ancient Blade on the field. Well, Croy thought, he had taught plenty of men to respect the sword he carried and the office it represented. He snarled and lifted the round oak shield he’d strapped across his left forearm. Normally he fought with two swords and no protection, but his left arm wasn’t strong enough yet to hold a sword properly so he’d chosen the shield instead. It had an iron boss in its center and a strip of steel around its rim. He’d trained with every manner of shield made by man or dwarf, and he knew exactly what to do with them. Just now, he clanged his shortsword against the boss, making a noise as loud as a ringing bell. “Over here,” he shouted.
That got a few more of the guards looking at him. One split off from the group attacking the ogre and jogged over to confront him. He was a big man carrying a military fork, its two long tines sharpened only at their points. A weapon usually meant for bringing down horses on the battlefield or for punching through heavy armor.
Of course, it would pierce Croy’s vitals just fine, should he allow its owner an opening.
“Who are you, and what in the Bloodgod’s foulest name do you want?” the guard challenged. He brought his fork down and shifted his hands backward on the haft. That put his points close to Croy’s chest and kept the guard well outside of sword range.
The knight smiled. “I am Sir Croy, and I serve the Burgrave, the king, and the Lady. I want you to drop that thing and run away. But I don’t think you will.”
“I think you’re right. Get out of here, knight—we have our hands full already.”
Croy shook his head. “I can’t do that. I want you to know that I’m sorry about this. But you serve an evil master, and I have much work to do tonight. So I can’t offer you any quarter.”
The guard’s lips curled back and he started to laugh wickedly.
Gurrh screamed then. It was not a pretty noise—it sounded like a lion being brought down by archers. The guard looked over his shoulder to see what was happening.
Croy took the advantage. It wasn’t the most honorable thing he’d ever done, but he was hard-pressed. He jammed his shield forward onto the tines of the military fork, hard enough to embed them deep in the oak. Before the guard could respond and pull them free, Croy twisted his left arm around—it hurt, but he had the strength to do it—and wrested the haft of the polearm right out of the guard’s hands. Then he hurled himself forward, leading with his right shoulder, and let the shortsword whistle through the air.
Swords wanted to cut. They wanted to draw blood—it was what they were made to do. Like a horse that when given its head will follow a track rather than traipsing off into brambles and rough ground, the sword cut through the air with very little help from Croy’s strength. It connected with the guard’s shoulder and bit deep into the meat of his arm. The guard howled and dropped to his knees as blood darkened his sleeve.
It wasn’t a killing blow. The guard would heal in time and feel no lasting effects. But it was a painful wound, and it would render him unable to fight with a polearm for the rest of the night.
Croy had promised himself that he would kill these men if he had to. He had steeled himself against the necessity. But this man had barely been paying attention. A killing stroke would have just been unsporting.
A good shake of his left arm—which was starting to pain him—loosened the military fork from his shield. Croy let it clatter on the ground and then lifted his blooded sword high. “Who among you shall be next?” he shouted.
Suddenly all the guards were staring at him.
Chapter Seventy-Six
Malden crept down a hallway that ran the length of the third floor, looking for the locked door that would lead to Hazoth’s sanctum. He could afford to be a little noisier now, since the hallway itself was far from silent.
Visitors to the house would never be allowed up here, he knew. Because this was where the villa got strange. The floating dining room table, the living books, the man of smoke he’d seen downstairs had all been miraculous, even wonderful. But up here was where Hazoth’s real magic was done.
The door to the laboratory was open, and Malden could hear foul ichors and mysterious fluids bubbling and oozing inside. A greenish light leaked out of that room, and the air before its door shimmered as if something inside were enormously hot—though when Malden passed it, he felt a chill and unwholesome breeze. The next room down the corridor concealed a kind of bestiary, judging from the mournful howling and frightened whimpering he heard. What manner of beasts were trapped within, whether ordinary animals to be experimented upon or exotic creatures kept as curiosities, he could not guess. He was not so foolish as to open the door just to find out.
A third door seemed to breathe in as he passed it, then exhale as he watched. As if the door itself was alive. He could see a dim, shimmering light coming from the crack between the bottom of the door and the floorboards. The light was the dark red of pitfire. Malden couldn’t help himself. He reached for the doorknob, thinking to throw open the door and see what lay beyond.
Just then, however, the door exhaled again—and filled the air before him with the stench of brimstone. He withdrew his hand quickly.
It couldn’t be, could it? This must be some kind of sorcerous joke. There was no way even a man like Hazoth would have a door in his house that led directly to the pit itself. What if someone opened that door by mistake?
But then—no one who was allowed up here would ever make that mistake. Not unless Hazoth wanted them to.
Malden kept moving. He passed another door and heard a very different kind of sound—no less plaintive—coming from within. Someone was weeping in there, though not someone human. The sounds were unnatural and unnerving, rising now and then to a crescendo of wailing that never came from any human throat. Lower, and harder to hear, was a rhythmic grunting that did sound human. It would seem Hazoth was . . . entertaining in there.
An urge to throw open the bedchamber door and see what a succubus really looked like gripped Malden, but he was able to fight it back down. It would be his doom, for one thing—to surprise Hazoth like that would be the very definition of folly. For another, judging by the sounds she made, he was willing to guess the succubus looked nothing like the toothsome painting on the wall of the House of Sighs.
A few steps farther and he came to a quite ordinary door that proved to be locked when he tried its latch. This must be the door Kemper had described for him, he decided. The door that opened on the trapped corridor. Beyond lay the sorcerer’s unholy sanctum—and the crown.
To this point Malden’s trespassing had gone without significant setbacks. Beyond this door the real game would begin, he knew. He wished for the thousandth time he could guess what lay beyond. Kemper hadn’t dared risk it, and Cythera had been unable to tell him anything. He would be wholly reliant on his own wits.
Glancing up and down the corridor to make sure Cythera wasn’t about to walk up behind him, he knelt on a rug before the door. He unwrapped his tools from the hilt of his bodkin and laid them out carefully beside him. Then he took a small dark lantern from his belt, and carefully lit the tiny candle inside. The tin lantern let no light at all escape until he slid open a hatch on its side. The beam thus released was just wide enough to shine into a keyhole. He needed that light to determine which of his rakes and picks would open the lock.
Yet when he looked into the lock, he recoiled in fright.
There were teeth in there.
Not metal spikes filed to points. Not the teeth of cog wheels. These teeth were the color of ivory and they glistened with saliva. Malden had no doubt that if he placed a finger inside the keyhole, those teeth would strip his flesh to the bone.
There was no tongue in there that he could see. He did not think the mouth in the keyhole would scream if he tried to pick the lock. He inserted a long thin hook to test this hypothesis—he was ready to run and find some other way to the crown if it made any sound at all—but the only result was that the teeth bit down hard on his hook, and snapped it off an inch from where Malden’s fingers clutched it.
Blast. That hook had not come cheap. Yet it could be replaced. He selected a much stronger tool, a torsion wrench, and slipped it into the lock. The teeth bit at it but Malden jerked it away in time—then shoved it in past the teeth when they opened up again. They closed on the iron tool and worried at it, but lacked the strength to chew right through it.
Good enough. He fitted a stout rake inside the lock and felt for tumblers. They were there, just beyond the teeth, but they felt wrong. Less like the precisely crafted cylinders he was used to, and more like the ribbed flesh on the roof of a dog’s mouth. Malden pushed down his squeamishness and tickled the pins until they started to slide back. He put some tension on the wrench and it started to turn.
Instantly the teeth began to gnash and chew at his tools with great fervor. A thin trickle of drool leaked from the lock and spilled down the outer surface of the door. Malden grimaced and rubbed the rake back and forth across the tumblers. It was no time for delicate work. One by one the tumblers slid back and the wrench turned all the way around. The dead bolt slammed open and the door creaked slightly as it opened an inch or two. Malden felt the pressure on his wrench and rake slacken, and he chanced another look into the lock. There were no teeth in there anymore�
��just a simple mechanical lock, something any dwarf could make in an afternoon.
Yet when he inspected his tools, he saw dents and scratches all over them. The teeth had been real. Now they were not. He wrapped his tools back up and stepped into the hall of traps beyond, having no time to consider the nature of magic or the dubious humor of those who practiced it.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Gurrh dropped to one knee. The iron fencepost he’d been wielding clanged on the ground as he clutched at his left eye with both furry hands. The captain of the guards shouted an order and his troops moved back, giving the archer room to draw a perfect bead on the ogre’s face.
The archer held his arrow and did not fire.
Four of the guards rushed to take position around Croy, boxing him neatly. They made no immediate move to attack, but kept their weapons up and ready. As soon as the captain gave the order they could lunge forward in concert and skewer Croy as neatly as a bird on a spit.
It seemed the captain wanted to parley first.
In some ways that was a bad sign. It meant the captain—or more likely Bikker—knew of Croy’s reputation, and that he’d survived against far greater odds up at the palace. Of course, then he’d had the option of running away. That wasn’t possible here.
Croy stood to his position, his shortsword pointed at the ground but held away from his body so if he needed to bring it up he would be ready to sweep it in a broad arc. As the captain approached, he breathed deeply and readied himself to move.
“Your beast is strong,” the captain said, “but he has no belly for a fight. He hasn’t so much as scratched one of us. I think you may have picked the wrong partner.”
Croy nodded at the man in way of salute. “He’s served his purpose. Half your men are disarmed, or carrying pieces of kindling that used to be weapons.”
Den of Thieves Page 36
