And who knew? Perhaps the Bloodgod would come to their aid, at the last minute. Perhaps He would open up the pit and a legion of demons would come boiling out, all teeth and claws and nightmarish shapes to save the city.
Malden laughed to himself as he hurried across the rooftops, down to the Ashes and the headquarters of Cutbill’s guild of thieves. He laughed because he’d half begun to believe it himself. The faith of the people was infectious, it seemed.
When he reached the burned-out tavern above Cutbill’s lair, he dropped to the street and stepped inside the ruin, looking for ’Levenfingers or Lockjaw. One of the oldsters should always be guarding the entrance, but neither of them was present.
It didn’t matter. Since there were no more watchmen in Ness, nor any bailiff to raid the place, security on the lair was of minimal importance. Malden hoped that the old men were out enjoying themselves, maybe having one last drink or enjoying the caresses of one last wench before the desperate moment came. He hurried down through the trapdoor into the lair and through the empty common room, heading for Cutbill’s office. Velmont should be there, collecting last minute reports from the thieves.
The Helstrovian was inside, as expected, which was at least something. Velmont sat in the chair behind Cutbill’s old desk, counting coins into a sack.
“It’s coming tomorrow, at dawn,” Malden said. “Send word around. I want every thief in the city on the rooftops before Ryewall. Make sure they have plenty of arrows, and-and-”
There were a lot of coins on the desk. And they were all gold.
Velmont hurriedly shoved them into his purse as if he didn’t want Malden to take them away from him. Odd.
“Where did you get those?” he asked.
“One last job,” the Helstrovian said with a shrug. “Surely you don’t begrudge it, boss. A man must get coin in this world where he can.”
“I’d be a sorry kind of thief if I disagreed,” Malden said. “Enjoy your newfound wealth while you’re able. Just make sure you get those archers in place before you go looking for ways to spend it.”
“They’ll be at it, sure enow,” Velmont said.
Something was wrong. The city was about to be overrun-sacked by the barbarians-but Velmont seemed calmer than he’d been in weeks. Almost like he knew he wouldn’t be around to see the end happen.
So many coins in that sack. So much gold. “You aren’t planning to run out on me now, are you?” Malden asked, laughing to make it sound like a joke.
“Perish the thought,” Velmont said. He rose from the chair and went to a side table to fetch a bottle of wine. “Quite the adventure we’ve had, eh? Not what I thought I was getting into, when I signed on.” He pulled the cork with his teeth.
“Hopefully it’s been sufficiently lucrative that you don’t question your decision,” Malden told him.
Velmont grinned broadly and poured a cup of wine. He handed it to Malden, then started pouring a second cup for himself.
“I’d love to stay and drink with you, believe me,” Malden said, sipping from his cup, “but I’m afraid there’s no time.”
“Certes there’s a moment for one mickle toast,” Velmont said. “Just swear one oath with me, is all, and be on your way.”
Malden sighed but raised his cup and touched its rim to Velmont’s. “And what oath will that be? To coin? To… loyalty?”
“To honor among thieves,” Velmont said, tilting his head to one side. “The most valuable commodity in this sorry world, eh?”
Malden laughed. “Because it is the rarest,” he agreed and drained his cup.
Something rattled around at its bottom. A whitish lump of something half dissolved. It slid forward on the dregs and touched Malden’s lips. Instantly they went numb.
Malden dropped the cup. He tried to grab the hilt of Acidtongue. His arm felt like a piece of rope. He could barely feel his hand at all.
“You… bass… yuh basst…” he slurred.
A tapestry hanging across one wall twitched aside, and half a dozen priests of the Bloodgod stormed into the room.
Chapter One Hundred Ten
“Get that iron off him,” Velmont commanded. His eyes stayed on Malden’s face. Malden tried to fight off the priests as they took Acidtongue from his belt, but he could barely slap at their hands. Already he was weak as a kitten in a sack.
“P-P-Poison,” he said, forcing the word out.
“Now that’d be folly pure, ain’t it?” Velmont said. “Killing you now, when these fine gentlemen have such plans for you?” The Helstrovian chuckled. “They’d hardly forgive me. No, I just done you a favor, boss.”
Malden tried to take a step toward Velmont but his legs felt like springs and he stumbled forward onto his knees.
“What I put in that cup’s only a bit o’ deadener. To take away the pain, like. Now when they stick you, you’ll feel nary a thing.”
Malden grabbed at the edge of the desk but his fingers were ten pieces of soft wood. Behind him two priests came forward to haul him upright and back onto his feet.
“M-Money,” Malden said.
“Aye, boss, they pay well, this lot. Enough to get me out o’ this pesthole and set up real nice aught where else. They’re e’en gonna help with that. Got me a boat, just a mickle skiff down in Eastpool, gonna send me out to sea while the barbarians is distracted tomorrow.”
Malden sagged against the priests holding him, but one of them pulled up on his collar and he got back on his feet. For the first time he looked at his captors. They were dressed in red, the color of their god, but he was surprised by how young they were. He’d never seen any of them before. Apparently Hargrove had been busy recruiting new acolytes. Malden wished he’d paid more attention to the growing priesthood-or stamped them out altogether when he had the chance.
“Bl-Bl-Bl,” he drooled. The drug left his mind untouched, but his body was feeling further and further away.
“Blood,” one of the priests said, for him. “ His blood. In olden times, when the people faced certain peril, only one thing could save them-a sacrifice of proper magnitude. When the danger is the greatest, only the blood of kings will suffice. Your blood should be close enough. Did not Sadu pick you, of all men, to bring back the old religion? Has He not worked through you, lo, these many weeks? Your sanctified blood will anoint the Godstone and finish His holy work. You’re going to be a martyr, Lord Mayor. You’ll be remembered forever in the prayers of the faithful.”
Cold dread washed through Malden, fighting the drug. It wasn’t enough to give him back the strength to fight, but it bolstered his tongue.
“Trai… tor,” he said, and spat in Velmont’s face.
The Helstrovian wiped the spittle away with his hand. He did not look particularly offended. After a moment he smiled sadly. “You had your chance, boss. When Morg offered up safe conduct, you could’ve jumped. Well, if this bunch is right, you’ll have one more go at savin’ your people, won’tcha? That’s what you wanted, ain’t it?” Velmont tied his bag of coin to his belt. It was so heavy it pulled down one side of his tunic, but he didn’t seem to mind the weight.
The Helstrovian went to the wall behind Cutbill’s desk and lifted aside the tapestry that hung there. “Fare thee well, boss. Can’t say it weren’t a pleasure, workin’ for you.” He gave Malden a mock salute, then disappeared behind the tapestry. A passage back there led back up into the Stink, many blocks away. Malden had used it often.
The priests walked Malden out through the common room, and between them they managed to lift him up through the trapdoor that led back to the Ashes. Outside the burnt-down tavern a wagon was waiting, drawn by a spavined horse with ribs protruding so far from its chest it looked like a skeleton. Malden was thrown into the back and held down by two of the priests, while a third perched on the front of the wagon to drive.
He could barely move his head to look around. It didn’t matter. He knew where they were headed. When he’d seen the crowd gathering around the Godstone, he thought they jus
t wanted bread. Now he understood-they were waiting for the great spectacle of a human sacrifice.
And there was no way to stop it. He could as easily have fought off Morget and the entire horde of barbarians single-handed as he could push away the men holding his arms. One of them wore Acidtongue at his own belt, now-did they intend to use it as the sacrificial blade? Malden knew if he’d had a little strength he could grab its hilt, pull it away from the man, slaughter them all before they knew what was happening. But he didn’t have that strength.
He could only look up at the cold stars and wonder how it had come to this. He’d never wanted to be Lord Mayor. He’d only wanted two things, ever, in his entire life. To have enough money to live comfortably, and to be a husband to Cythera.
He reflected that it was not the Bloodgod who’d brought things to this pass. One of the old names of the Lady was Fama. It was she who raised men from one station to another, whether they wanted to rise or not. She who, in her other role, as Fortuna, brought them crashing back down to earth again.
Sadu didn’t bother with such cruel games. He only brought justice-more often than not, the utterly equal justice of death.
The wagon bounced on over the cobbles, Malden rocking back and forth with its motion, unable to brace himself. He barely felt the jars and bumps, and was only peripherally aware that at some point the wagon stopped. This was it, then. They must have arrived at the Godstone.
Yet he couldn’t hear the roaring of the crowd or the chants for blood that he’d expected. He glanced from side to side with sluggish eyes and saw the wrong buildings. The wagon had stopped somewhere in the Smoke, well short of its destination.
“You,” the driver of the wagon called. “Old man. Please clear the way. We are on sacred business and can’t be delayed.”
One of the priests holding Malden let go of him and stood up in the bed of the wagon. “What is this botheration?” he asked.
A crossbow bolt suddenly appeared, sticking out of his left eye. The wickedly barbed point protruded from the back of the priest’s head, along with a thin spurt of blood.
Malden watched the man fall. It seemed to take a very, very long time.
He heard a groan of pain and looked forward, as best he could, to see the driver of the wagon tumble toward the street. The third priest, the one wearing Acidtongue, grabbed for the side of the wagon in panic. The wagon rocked as someone else jumped into the bed. The last of the priests drew Acidtongue clumsily from its sheath and held it out, point forward. Malden could see the point trembling as the priest’s hand shook.
A drop of acid spilled from the blade and fell to the bed of the wagon, mere inches from Malden’s face. He tried desperately to turn his head away, to avoid the next drip, but he could barely twitch to the side.
His head rolled-and he saw who it was who’d killed the other two priests. Who now stood in the wagon, facing down Acidtongue.
It was Cutbill. The old guildmaster of thieves, dressed like a peasant in a shapeless russet tunic.
Cutbill grabbed the priest by his baldric. The priest tried to bring Acidtongue up to defend himself but he was too slow. Cutbill launched his head forward, connecting his forehead viciously with the priest’s nose. Cartilage snapped with a sickening crunch and blood splattered down the front of the priest’s tunic, turning its red fabric black in the moonlight. The sword fell uselessly to the bed of the wagon in a pool of its own acid.
Cutbill had a knife in his hand, no bigger than the belt knife he might use to cut and eat his food. He struck with it three times, perforating the priest’s neck in three precise, almost surgical cuts. The priest fell backward, out of the wagon, without a sound. Malden had no doubt the man was dead before he hit the cobbles.
Then Cutbill grabbed Malden and hauled him out of the wagon. He pushed him toward a disused horse trough that had frozen over in the night. With his bloody knife, Cutbill smashed up the ice and shoved Malden’s face into the bitterly cold water.
The effect was immediate. The cold shocked his system-left him feeling still weak as an infant but at least able to gasp for breath and look around him. He saw the wagon standing exactly where it had stopped, the starveling horse waiting patiently for a command that would never come. He saw the deserted streets, saw the three bodies lying on the cobbles.
“How… did,” he said, but lacked the strength to finish his thought. How did you know they would do this? How did you know where to find me? Those were only his most pressing questions.
Cutbill, though, never gave away his secrets. Rather than answering, he grabbed Malden’s face and slapped him mercilessly. “Fight it, son,” the guildmaster told him. “You’re going to need to walk in a moment. After that, you’ll need to run.”
Malden forced his left hand to clench into a fist. It didn’t quite make it, but he felt the blood surging through his fingers. He tried again. Cutbill nodded and went back to the wagon. When he returned, he had Acidtongue, its scabbard, and Malden’s sword belt. He helped Malden strap it back on.
“Not… your usual… style,” Malden forced himself to say. He’d never actually imagined Cutbill capable of leaving his various lairs and bolt-holes. Certainly never thought the guildmaster of thieves capable of such a daring-and savage-rescue.
“In fact this was exactly my style, once upon a time,” Cutbill assured him. “In a less decorous era. These days I find it more to my advantage to plot and scheme from the shadows, yes. But I’ve done my share of desperate things in the past, when plans fell apart. I need you still, Malden. I’m not done with you, not quite yet. I still need a hero to save my city tomorrow.”
“Too bad you only… have me,” Malden joked.
“You know I hate false modesty. You’re exactly the man for the job. If only because no one else is here to do it. Bend this knee,” Cutbill said. “Farther. Does it pain you to bend like that?”
Malden shook his head. “Nothing hurts.”
“It will. When the drug wears off it’s going to hurt a lot. Now. Bend the other knee. Good. Again.”
Chapter One Hundred Eleven
An hour before dawn the snow burned a deep blue. Fires burned low in the barbarian camp, untended now by men who expected to be inside walls and warm in a little space of time. Morget dropped to his knees before the wall of Ness and spread his hands wide, for that was how the men of the East prayed.
O mother, O Death, come today for my enemies, he beseeched silently, for no man of the East prayed aloud when another could hear. O my mother, come for my men, too, my warriors, who I would slay myself to please you, until their blood painted this world. Come for the little people of the West, and conquer their little gods. Come for the innocent. Come for the women. Come for the children, and even the little babes.
Slake this thirst inside me with hot blood.
Or come for me, if that is my doom.
But come, and reap, and take many souls into your arms.
No one was there to ask him what he begged for. Hurlind the scold was passed out drunk in his tent. Balint the dwarf was gone, spirited away in her own tunnels by hands unseen. Morgain was riding for Helstrow, well beyond Morget’s reach. Morg the Wise, Morg the Merciful, Morg the Great Chieftain was dead by his son’s red hand. The chieftains who remained, their reavers and their warriors, their thralls and their berserkers, did not dare approach a man communing with his wyrd.
Morget was alone. No one remained to share in his glory.
Which meant it would all be his.
Everything was in readiness, and everything was planned for. The berserkers would be first and already they danced before the wall of the city, danced wildly, working their blood up, danced and sang with great ululating shrieks and shouts, with atonal, wordless chants to drive themselves mad. When the wall came down they would rush inside and slaughter indiscriminately anyone they found. After them the clans would pour through, a river of iron to wash away any defenders that remained. He would be in among them, with axe and Dawnbringer, and he wo
uld reap a great harvest.
Or so it had been planned. Yet destiny, or doom, whichever it might be, was known to laugh at men who schemed, and so it was to be that day.
The sign, the portent of what was truly to come, was a ring of steel against iron, and it was repeated not once but a hundred times even before Morget looked up from his prayer. Behind him at the edge of the camp horses screamed and men cried out in pain. Morget jumped to his feet and grabbed his weapons.
He was not expecting this, but still it brought a smile to his face. He hurried past surprised-looking chieftains standing outside their tents, past thralls holding the ropes that would bring down the wall of Ness. He hurried to where men held weapons in their hands, and pushed into their ranks so he could see what gift his mother had brought him.
An armored man on a horse nearly put a lance-tip through Morget’s chest as he looked around him. Morget was fast enough to spin out of the way and bury his axe deep in the haunch of the horse as it passed. The animal faltered and went down, and the knight on its back had to jump down into the snow.
Morget did not recognize the armor the man wore, nor the way he braided his mustache. This was no man of Skrae. He found this fact deeply intriguing.
The knight got to his feet while Morget waited. The barbarian could have struck his enemy down a dozen times, but he wanted to see what this new foeman would bring to bear. The knight had a long, tapering shield across his left arm, and his right hand came up with a flail, three spiked steel balls whirling over his head. If they found purchase on Morget’s flesh, they would tear away skin and muscle and crush his bones. With an ease and a grace that came from a hundred such encounters, Morget stepped inside the knight’s reach and thrust Dawnbringer into the air. The Ancient Blade burst with light as it fouled the chains holding those deadly orbs, clattered as they wrapped around and around Morget’s foible.
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