David Chandler - A thief in the night

Then Croy heard a low chanting. In the distance he could just make out a human figure. It sat cross-legged on the cobblestones, hands pressed together as if in prayer.

“What do you make of this?” Croy asked Morget.

The barbarian shrugged.

When the last revenant had gone, the figure rose to its feet and walked slowly toward them. In the red light of the subterranean sun Croy could just see that it was a man-a human-wearing the undyed woolen habit of a priest.

“Be not alarmed,” the newcomer said. “I am a holy man, and I drove the fiends away with the blessing of my god. That is all. You are Sir Croy, are you not?” The man had come close enough that Croy could see his round, smiling face. His eyes were small and dark but they glinted in the red light. “My new friend Herward told me you had come inside the Vincularium.”

“Herward?” Croy frowned. “The old hermit sent you in here? Why, to aid us?”

“I came for my own reasons. You must be Morget, the man of the East,” the priest said. “You’re bigger than I expected.” He reached into one sleeve of his habit and twisted something Croy couldn’t see. “I was under the impression your dwarf was male as well. My new friends weren’t entirely clear. That may change things slightly.”

The knight shoved Ghostcutter into its scabbard. “If you’ve come to do the Lady’s work,” he sneered, “you’ve come too late. What’s your name?”

The priest laughed pleasantly. “I didn’t say I was a priest of your Lady.” He brought his hands down to his sides. “My name is Prestwicke.”

His left hand shot upward and something flickered across Croy’s vision. Balint screamed, and her knocker leapt down to the cobbles and ran off into the shadows. Croy stared in horror as he saw a dart sticking out of Balint’s neck. Her scream ended in a gurgling hiss and then she slumped against one of the barrels, her eyes fluttering closed.

Croy gasped in surprise and reached for Ghostcutter’s hilt. Before he could even reach it, the priest threw another dart that struck Morget right in the chest, just left of center.

“The elves had a very poor description of you. Never mind. The dosage may be too low for your weight, but applied directly to the heart, it should be effective,” Prestwicke said as Morget came storming toward him. Dawnbringer came up to slice the priest in half, but before the blow could connect, Morget stumbled and pitched face-first onto the cobbles.

“Not now,” Croy growled, and yanked Ghostcutter free of its sheath.

The priest flicked his wrist. Croy couldn’t see the dart coming-he only felt a sudden pinprick in his shoulder. He howled and lifted his weapon high, but before he took a step toward the priest, his blood slowed in his body and his head spun.

And then everything went black.

For a long while Croy heard nothing but a voice roaring close to his ear. He could not seem to open his eyes, or move his hands, but he could hear just fine. Unfortunately all he could hear was Morget.

“-pull your tongues from your mouths, flay the skin off your backs, the clans will tear you out branch and root, your stomachs burst open, your eyes spitted, your-”

Croy felt like he was trapped at the bottom of a well, with only the curses echoing down to him from above. He tried to swim upward, to reach for the light, but his body felt like it was made of lead. Straining and groaning, he stretched his consciousness as far as it would go and it snapped back, rubbery and ineffectual.

He was moving, always moving. He very much wanted to lie still. He felt sick and afraid. He felt like he was going to throw up, but still he couldn’t see where he was. Open one eye, he told himself. Just open one eye and take a quick look. Find out where you are, at least.

His body refused to acknowledge his desires. He was barely aware of it at all, aware only of the motion and the noise.

“-guts steaming on the hot ground, eat your liver, tear it apart with my own teeth, smash your brains with a rock-”

If Morget would just be quiet-but no. No, it was helping. The bellowing imprecations were anchoring his consciousness. Without them he would be lost, adrift. So instead of ignoring the foul words, Croy focused on them. Struggled to hear them better.

“-grind your bones, stretch your skins on frames, the death of one cut, blood on the rocks, blood to paint our tents, blood, blood, blood-”

Open one eye.

Open it.

Croy’s left eyelid parted, only a crack. Light streamed in and for a moment he was swimming again, swimming and spinning and lost, but then the light dimmed, became almost bearable. He turned his eye left and right.

He was in a room with walls of every possible color. Music was playing somewhere, no, not music, just the sound of bells, rattling bells.

If he pushed his eye all the way over to the left, he could just see the side of Morget’s face. Thick cords bound the barbarian’s head, one holding his chin, others crossing his forehead, holding him in place. Croy grunted and tried to move his arms, and felt similar cords holding him down as well. He was bound. Immobilized.

An elfin face surrounded by black cloth appeared before him. The bells were attached to the elf’s black cloak, and they stirred and jingled every time he moved. The elf was speaking. Croy had to force himself to ignore Morget so he could hear what the elf said. He was soon sorry for it.

“-in a different era, we had a special torment for humans who despoiled our lands. We would stake them out in the forest, in a clearing where a little sunlight came, and underneath their bodies we would plant the seeds of fast-growing trees. Over a period of months, the trees would grow, spreading branches upward toward the light-through the bodies of the interlopers. The agony was supposed to be beyond measure, as the woody growths pressed against their skin, then penetrated their flesh. Special care was taken to make sure no branch pierced a vital organ, because then the human would die too quickly. No, we wanted them to understand why this was done. We wanted them to know what despoiling felt like. Intimately. Of course, now we have no trees. I imagine we can think of something else, given time.”

The black-clad elf fell silent. He nodded politely as someone else spoke. Who, Croy could not have said-he couldn’t see the other party. He tried desperately to open his right eye, to twitch his fingers, anything, but it seemed his strength was used up.

“Of course,” the elf said, replying to something Croy hadn’t heard. “You have done us proper service, and you will be rewarded. You will have the one you seek, to kill as you desire. His name was… Malton?”

“Malden, milord.” Croy heard the other’s voice this time. It was the voice of the priest, the man in the undyed habit who had drugged him. Who had captured him and turned him over to the elves.

“Malden. I must… remember that.” The elf’s eyes turned inward then, and he sank back onto a waiting couch. “I must take my leave of you now,” he said. The elf lay on his couch and stared up at the ceiling.

Croy searched the room with his one open eye but could find no one else in it. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound, except Morget, still raving:

“-slit along the forehead, just at the hairline, then slip the knife under the skin and cut a flap, peel back, we will take your hair and make plumes for our helmets, we will slaughter your children and make slaves of your women, we will-”

It was too much. All too much. What little energy Croy had marshaled had been used up, just for that one moment of lucidity. His eye fluttered closed again. He could not have kept it open for any price. Soon even the sound of Morget’s cursing receded, and he sank into a heavy velvet sleep, fighting all the way down.