Den of Thieves

by David Chandler

  The two of them nodded at each other in way of salute.

  And then they began.

  Chapter Ninety-One

  Malden hurried down the long corridor at the back of the villa that opened on the dining room and its preparatory. The door there would provide another chance to escape into the night—but he wasn’t done yet.

  Behind him the prematurely born demon howled and raged and clawed at the walls. An ornamental table stood in the hallway, a delicate piece of turned rosewood. The nine of bells lay on its surface like a calling card.

  With a cry of rage the demon smashed the table to flinders, then beat at the wall and floor where the table had been with an unquenchable will and a strength a hundred times greater than a man’s. The card was obliterated, but still the demon smashed and clawed until the plaster wall exploded in a cloud of white dust and the wattles behind it burst like matchwood. Malden hurried down the hall, breathing heavily now. Surely it wouldn’t take much longer.

  Behind him he could hear the demon clawing at the walls, pulling down timbers from the ceiling. The house shook and danced, and he was nearly thrown from his feet with every step. The demon was taking the place to pieces in its search for him.

  Half the house was in ruins now, torn apart by the beast as it sought out his scent. It must be horribly confused, he thought, because it smelled him everywhere—everywhere Kemper had left one of his cards.

  Cythera had told him that the demon hunted by smell alone, and that it could follow its prey’s scent through any obstacle or diversion. It made him think of someone else who worked miracles with his nose—Kemper, the card sharp, whose cards were not visibly marked but who knew the stink of every one of them so well that when he dealt them, they might as well have been faceup.

  With all that in mind, for the past three days Malden had carried those cards inside his tunic, through all manner of exertions. He had rubbed them on his armpits and his groin, on the sweaty back of his neck, on any part of his body that might imbue them with his smell. He had not lacked for exudation—fear made him sweat copiously.

  When he gave them back to Kemper, the card sharp was most displeased. Malden had ruined them for gaming by changing the invisible markings Kemper knew so well. But for the purposes of this scheme, the card sharp had been willing to make the sacrifice. While Malden worked his way into the sanctum, Kemper had moved around the house as only an intangible man could, walking through walls and locked doors, keeping out of sight, and placing his cards here and there, one under a fine mahogany dressing table, one in a closet full of crockery and plates.

  The cards served the purpose of slowing the demon down. It had to investigate each card, and its method of investigation was to destroy whatever it smelled. The time it took the demon to smash Hazoth’s finest furniture was all the time Malden needed to get a head start on it and keep clear of its jaws.

  Hopefully, the cards would serve another purpose.

  Malden had known it would be impossible to steal the crown back without alerting Hazoth to his presence. The man was a sorcerer, after all, and this was his own house. After hundreds of years in it he must know its every nook and cranny better than Kemper knew his cards. So Malden’s scheme to retake the crown had been constructed, by necessity, around the knowledge that eventually he would have to face the demon.

  Malden turned in a doorway and looked down a long hall lit only by a single cresset. Halfway down the hall the demon roared as it pulverized a linen press, searching destructively for the card Kemper must have hidden at its bottom. Shreds of cloth and fibers of the best linen floated in the air as the demon beat and flailed at the walls with its mismatched legs.

  Malden stepped through the door and slammed it behind him. He was no longer worried about making any noise. Especially when the house had begun to creak and moan all around him. He could hear its columns and its boards shifting on foundations that had stood for as long as there was a city around it. The wood was strained by the damage the demon did to its walls. Malden pricked up his ears as he heard a series of popping noises like thunder cracks. Nails giving way above his head, one after the other, bursting from the beams and rafters they held together.

  It was time to flee, definitely. Behind him the demon raged and threw itself at the door he’d closed, desperate to get at him, needing to devour him so it could return to its egg and resume its long sleep. The wall around the door shook and split, as a wide crack opened in the plaster and went racing toward the ceiling.

  Get out now, Malden thought, and raced toward a solarium at the far end of the house. A door there stood between him and the garden. It was locked, and far too sturdy to knock down with his shoulder. He cursed as he reached for his bodkin and the tools woven into its grip. He needn’t have bothered, though. Before he could get his first pick free, the entire house leaned over to one side, the walls and ceiling seeming to careen right toward where he stood. The door before him, warped out of its frame, went spinning off into the night.

  Behind him the demon crashed into the solarium. Its skull heads circled around in the air, its red nostrils pulsing. Malden ran through where the door had been and out into cool night air, the demon hard on his heels. It got one of its skull heads and two of its legs through the doorway before the second and third floors of the house collapsed all at once on its back.

  The noise was beyond imagining, like the earth opening wide to suck the entire city down into the pit. Debris was everywhere, tumbling and arcing through the air, entire rafter beams dancing end over end across the Ladypark Common. A rolling cloud of plaster dust hit Malden like a tidal wave and he was knocked down by the shock wave. A piece of glass jagged as a knife blade cut across his forehead, and blood made red tracks through the dust that covered his face.

  Choking and heaving for breath, he got back to his feet and surveyed the destruction. It looked like a storm had loosed every lightning bolt in its quiver at the house, all at once. The villa had become a chaotic hell of rubble and wreckage, with barely two boards still standing attached to one another. In the mess, a few small fires burned, while dozens of small animals, freed from their cages in the ruin, burst into flight or went howling away on long legs or only crawled or slithered out of the cataclysm.

  Malden could hardly believe his eyes. This had been his plan all along, of course, but even so—the damage was immeasurable. The destruction utterly complete.

  He started to dust himself off, but stopped when he saw something moving inside the debris. A massive board was heaved clear and then a snowdrift of plaster went sliding into a cavity in the heap. A pink, raw arm reached up from inside and hauled at a crossbeam that was still mostly intact. Little by little the demon pulled itself clear of the remains of the house. Its skull heads lifted clear of the wreckage and its mouth began to howl once more.

  “Bloodgod take my eyes,” Malden cursed.

  The demon had survived.

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  A minute earlier, outside:

  Bikker took a step toward Croy’s left, but did not advance.

  Croy stood where he was. Ghostcutter’s point tracked Bikker as he moved. Croy had lived with the sword so long it took no effort at all to keep it pointed at the bearded swordsman.

  This would all be over in a moment.

  One strike—and Acidtongue would carve Croy like a chicken. The vitriol on its blade would sear through his flesh and he would be undone.

  One thrust—and Ghostcutter would drive through Bikker’s shirt of chain, pierce his vitals, and leave him gasping in his own blood. Assuming Croy had enough strength left to complete the stroke.

  “Are you ready?” Bikker asked.

  “There is no such thing as readiness,” Croy said. “One fights, and lives, or one prepares, and one dies. You taught me that.”

  “Do you regret it has come to this?” Bikker asked.

  “Yes.”

  Bikker sighed. “As do I, to be honest. Shall we count to three, and then strike?”
/>
  “One,” Croy said.

  “Two,” Bikker responded.

  “Three,” they said together.

  Acidtongue whirled through the air, coming down hard and fast from Croy’s left, his weak side. Croy tried to lean out of the way but knew he wouldn’t be fast enough. Ghostcutter shifted in his hand and came upward to parry. The two blades met with an awful grinding, sizzling noise. Acid bit into Ghostcutter’s silver edge and notched the iron underneath. Bikker pushed forward suddenly and Croy went sprawling, his left hand out to catch him as he fell.

  Not enough, not nearly enough—Croy had wasted his one cut—it was the end—in a moment Bikker would remise, following through on the stroke Croy had parried, bringing the blow home, and—

  —Ghostcutter broke free of the engagement, ringing clear of Acidtongue. The acid had made the blades slick and unlocked them. Croy turned at the waist as he fell, trying to catch himself before he fell on his back, and Ghostcutter whistled through the air in a tight arc. Croy used every bit of control he had over the weapon and brought it low and inside Bikker’s guard. Busy gaining leverage for his remise, Bikker had his arms up, and that left his side unprotected.

  Ghostcutter was a heavy blade. Its own momentum sliced through the chain-mail shirt over Bikker’s hip and deep into the flesh beneath. It didn’t stop until it had sliced halfway through Bikker’s spine.

  Bikker gasped and took a step backward, and Ghostcutter came free of his midsection as easily as it was pulled from its own scabbard.

  “Sadu take you,” Bikker shouted, and lifted Acidtongue again for another stroke. He lunged forward, but before he was halfway to Croy he stumbled and blood came vomiting out of his mouth.

  Acidtongue dropped to the grass. It was dry by the time it landed—it secreted vitriol only when held by a strong arm. Bikker dropped to his knees beside it and then fell face forward into the earth.

  Croy crawled toward his old teacher and rolled the man over on his back. Bikker’s face was congested with blood and his eyes weren’t focusing. His mouth moved but the words that came out were inaudible whispers. Croy bent his ear over Bikker’s lips to hear what he said.

  “When you find an heir for my sword,” Bikker told him, his voice no louder than the breeze that ruffled the grass, “teach him that stroke. It’s a good one.”

  Croy closed his friend’s eyelids, and wept.

  He was not given time to grieve, however.

  The grass was blown back by a flash of light more bright than the sun at midday. Hazoth and Cythera were suddenly standing over him. He looked up into her eyes but didn’t like what he saw there.

  She might have spoken—but just then, behind Croy, the villa fell in on itself with a mammoth crash.

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  “Croy! Croy!” Malden called, racing around the side of the house where the debris was not so thick. He jumped onto a fallen rafter beam and leapt into a drift of plaster dust that billowed up around him like a cloud. He managed to sidestep a pile of broken glass but still came down hard on a plank of wood that shifted under him and sent him sprawling forward.

  Behind him the demon’s skull heads bit at the air. It was almost upon him.

  “Croy! Kill it!” he screamed as he came around to the front of the house, where the rose window had fallen in a million shards of colored glass.

  He took in the scene in an instant, though he liked little of it. Bikker looked dead, which was a good thing, and Croy was still holding his sword. The knight was sitting down in the grass, however, with his knees up to his chest, and he looked as pale as a sheet. Had the two fools killed each other?

  Cythera and Hazoth were there, too. Both of them were staring at the pile of rubble that had been their home. They seemed too paralyzed by surprise to react.

  “Demon!” Malden shouted, his feet slapping against the grass. “Croy!”

  He raced up to the knight and then jumped over Croy’s head. The demon was right behind him, snatching at his heels with one clawed foot.

  Ghostcutter was pointed at the sky, suddenly. Croy did not rise, or call out a threat, or even shift from where he sat, but his sword pointed upward. The demon couldn’t see it, having no eyes, and as the blade bit into its belly, at first it seemed not even to notice.

  Then the cold iron blade pierced it through, and the point came out through the demon’s back. It fell on Croy hard enough to crush any man, and scratched at the ground with every one of its mismatched legs, but it couldn’t seem to get free.

  Cythera shouted for Croy, but the knight was completely covered by the demon’s body. If he heard her, he could make no reply.

  “Malden, he was already gravely wounded—if we don’t get him out of there soon he’ll smother,” she said, beseeching the thief.

  Malden started to shrug. What could he do? His bodkin was useless against the thing. He was no Ancient Blade to fight a demon. But then—

  He saw Acidtongue on the ground next to Bikker’s body. Like Ghostcutter, it was made for fighting demons. Malden grabbed it and found that he could barely lift it. He’d never used a sword in his life and realized instantly that it wasn’t just a matter of swinging it around like a stick.

  But then drops of vitriol appeared along the blade’s length like sweat. Grabbing the hilt with both hands, Malden rushed toward the demon, holding the sword straight out from his body. He jabbed it into the demon’s back and leaned on the pommel until it sank deep into the demon’s vitals.

  The skull heads reared up and screamed at the stars as the demon redoubled its thrashing. Malden let go of the sword’s hilt then and staggered back, trying to get clear of its flailing legs.

  Eventually it died, and lay still. Its flesh fumed and liquefied until its bones stuck up through its raw musculature. Its claws curled and withered like paper in a fire. Soon it was no more than wisps of foul-smelling smoke and a pool of vile liquid. Underneath its remains, Croy struggled to pull Ghostcutter free of the infernal thing’s rib cage.

  Malden stared at the beast in utter incomprehension. He couldn’t believe what he had just done. He had killed a demon. He—the puny thief, who had never even cut a human being before—had killed. Of course, it had been pinned and immobile, and— But he had killed it—

  Malden started to whoop in joy. But then an invisible hand grasped his heart and began to squeeze.

  “My son . . . my house,” Hazoth said. “You destroyed my house.”

  Malden dropped to the ground, unable to move a muscle. The sorcerer leaned over him.

  “I was going to allow you a quick death, rodent,” the sorcerer said. “No more.”

  Chapter Ninety-Four

  Malden rolled on the ground, his body coming to pieces from the inside out. Pain gripped him like iron tongs as Hazoth twisted one hand in the air, and his guts tied themselves in knots. He could barely see anything—his vision had turned the bright red of arterial blood.

  Then it cleared, just enough for him to look up into Hazoth’s face. “I want you to see me while you suffer,” the sorcerer told him. “I want you to feel everything. The pain I’m about to inflict on you would normally drive a rodent unconscious. It might even kill one outright. Your primitive brain would rather die than live through this agony. But I won’t let it. You are going to suffer for what you’ve done to me. And I know more than anyone about what suffering means.”

  Malden gasped for breath, but every ounce of air he inhaled felt like he was swallowing knives. His arms curled around his chest, constricted by pain, but still he could see the magician staring down into his eyes.

  So he could see it very clearly when a red blotch appeared on Hazoth’s cheek and burst through the skin as an ugly boil.

  It was such a surprise he almost forgot the pain. Almost.

  “Your spells are . . . slipping,” he wheezed.

  “You know nothing of magic. Save your breath for the screams you are about to utter,” Hazoth told him.

  Yet even as the wizard spoke, pim
ples erupted near his hairline. Hazoth reached up to feel the bumpy skin there and something miraculous happened.

  The expression on his face changed. He started to show real fear. He even cried out as one of his eyes grew thick with cataracts.

  On the ground, Malden wanted to laugh. He wanted to crow for joy. The pain he’d felt disappeared as Hazoth reared back and clutched at his ear, which had begun to drip blood. “What is this?” Hazoth demanded. He turned to stare at Cythera.

  “The link between us is fading, Father,” she said. The vines and flowers on her face writhed and bloomed wildly. “He did it. The thief did it—Coruth must be free. When the house came down it must have broken your magic circle. She has undone the connection she once made between you and I.” Cythera looked like she could hardly believe it herself. As if she didn’t dare believe what was happening.

  But it was real. The curses Hazoth had avoided so long, the inimical magics cast on him by the demons of the pit in revenge for all he’d done to them, were getting through. Instead of being deposited on Cythera’s skin as painted flowers, they were appearing on his own skin as blossoms of blood and corruption.

  “Damn that woman,” Hazoth said, his voice thick with phlegm. He shook himself and spoke a few words in some ancient language. Instantly, the sores on his face stopped weeping and closed again, until his countenance was as unblemished as before. “She’s weak, though. Too weak to resist. I’ll find her and prison her again.”

  “No, I don’t think you will,” Cythera said.

  Then she grabbed him by the arms and mashed her lips against his cheek in a brutal kiss. “Farewell, Father.”

  Hazoth’s eyes went wide. Green sparks lit up his hair and his chest.

  On Cythera’s left hand an oleander flower curled up and withered. A vine retracted around her wrist, shrinking back on itself.