David Chandler - A thief in the night

The throng held its collective breath as they waited to hear what their wizard-priest had to say. Yet the Hieromagus seemed even more distracted than usual. His eyes were as vacant as Balint’s, and his hands occasionally flew up around his face, as if to drive away bothersome insects. He was ushered to a good viewing spot, then left alone by his attendants.

Last to arrive, Prestwicke entered the hall and strode across the flagstones, bowing deep as the crowd cheered him on.

“This is not how I wanted things to end, dear Malden,” he confessed, coming close enough that he could speak to the thief in a conversational tone, though the marble walls around him reflected his voice so that Malden was sure the elves could hear him, too. “I wanted to do things properly. There are forms to follow, rituals to carry out. I wanted to make this clean. But you forced my hand.”

“So sorry for the inconvenience,” Malden said, intending the words to come out clear and defiant. Instead they sounded like a panicked mumble.

Prestwicke drew an oilskin bundle from inside his woolen habit and unrolled it carefully. Inside, his knives gleamed as bright as polished silver.

“What are you?” Malden asked, in his desperation. “You’re no assassin. I’ve known bravos before, jaded men who would cut a throat for the price of a cup of wine. Stupid, brutish fellows with no imagination. You’re different from them.”

Prestwicke smiled broadly. “Flattery,” he said, “will not save your skin, Malden. But I’ll answer your question. I am exactly what I look like.”

“A priest?”

Prestwicke bowed again. “Exactly. I serve Sadu, the Bloodgod. I do not assassinate my victims. I sacrifice them, in His exalted name.”

Malden frowned. In Ness there were still plenty of people who worshipped Sadu, of course. The Lady was the official religion of Skrae, but her tenets meant little to the poor, and they had kept the old religion alive through centuries of persecution. It was hardly an organized faith, however. “There are no priests of Sadu,” Malden said.

“Not now. Yet once there were, and there will be again. I will be the first,” Prestwicke said. “I will renew the church. I will bring back the old ways.”

“I’m no scholar of theology,” Malden admitted, “but I know Sadu’s priests never took gold for their ceremonies.”

“You’re assuming I will be paid in coin. Malden, I will gain so much more than that from your death! My employer claims to have certain books that were long thought lost. Books I would give anything to see. The secrets I will learn-the prayers, the ceremonies, the sacred lessons, will bring great honor to Sadu. But I say too much.” He took a knife from his pouch. “I shouldn’t waste time with chatter, when there’s work to be done.”

He brought his knife up to Malden’s forehead. Malden tried to jerk his head backward but Prestwicke grabbed his chin and held him in a viselike grip. He had forgotten how surprisingly strong the killer was.

The knife touched Malden’s skin. He tried his hardest to keep his eyes open, to stare his hatred into Prestwicke’s face while he was slaughtered, but the pain was too much. He squeezed his eyes shut and gasped as blood rolled down through his eyebrows.

Prestwicke moved his knife to Malden’s cheek.

Before he could press it home, though, a terrifying shriek split the air. The gathered elves murmured and cried out in surprise, and even Prestwicke stopped what he was doing to look.

The Hieromagus had jumped up from his chair and was clawing at nothing as if he were beset by wild animals.

“Not like-not this way-the thief doesn’t-doesn’t die like this! History-so much history-all here- so long. So long! The chains cannot be broken…”

Malden shook his head to clear the blood that threatened to roll into his eyes. He craned his head farther to the side to see better what was happening. The Hieromagus slumped forward, his body wracked by spasms. He was caught by a pair of elfin soldiers who looked terrified.

“The Hieromagus!” a lord shouted. Malden recognized him-he was the same one who had wanted to watch him bleed, and who was only kept from that pleasure by Slag’s sudden attack of vomiting. It seemed he’d finally gotten his wish, but he was too distracted to enjoy it. “The Hieromagus is undone-lost in time! Quickly, bring jugglers, and dancers, and… anyone, sing a song, call him back!”

Musicians gathered on the flagstones before the delirious priest-wizard and started into a jaunty tune, but the Hieromagus did not look up.

“Bring perfumes and spices. Put pepper on his tongue,” the lord pleaded.

“Hold still,” Prestwicke told Malden. “That does not concern us.”

But then Aethil stood up and rushed forward. “Wait!” she called.

The gathered elves fell silent. Even the musicians ceased their playing. It seemed that in the absence of the Hieromagus, Aethil could still command a certain respect.

“Stop the execution,” she commanded.

“But-your highness,” the lord pleaded. “Now? We must see to the Hieromagus, and-”

“You heard my order,” Aethil said. “Will you defy me?”

The lord looked confused. He reached for the Hieromagus, perhaps intending to simply ignore his queen.

“I asked you a question!” Aethil shouted.

It was another lord who answered, however. One Malden didn’t know. “The human assaulted your person.”

“And he shall die for it,” Aethil agreed.

Malden’s heart sank.

The elf queen wasn’t finished, however. “But let his death serve some purpose. Let him fight the other human. That should be diversion enough to arouse the Hieromagus.”

“A fight to the death?” the lord asked. “But we’ve never stooped to bloodsport for his amusement before.”

“Exactly. It will be a novelty, sure to bring him around.”

Malden frowned in confusion. He had no idea where this sudden inspiration had come from. It didn’t seem Aethil’s style at all. Then he looked over at Slag, and the dwarf winked back.

Malden started to laugh.

He still expected to die. He still had no hope of ever leaving this place. But at least he wasn’t going to be butchered like a hog. It was funny what you could be grateful for, when fate played its tricks.

“No!” Prestwicke screamed, a strangely high-pitched noise. “No,” he repeated, in a more measured voice. “This is not what I was promised. I made a deal for this man’s life. I intend to see that deal honored.”

“If you feel slighted, human,” Aethil said, “you may seek redress from the Hieromagus. Once he comes back to himself, of course.”

Prestwicke seemed near to tears. “I was promised-”

“I made you no compact,” Aethil said. “Unbind the prisoner! Bring out the iron swords!”

A gasp rose from the audience.

An elf in a tattered smock came running toward Malden and Prestwicke. The Bloodgod’s priest raised his knife high and the elf flinched back, but then Prestwicke turned away and wiped the blood from the knife with his sleeve. The elf untied Malden’s bonds and then ran off again as fast as he could.

Malden staggered forward and rubbed furiously at his wrists. His hands ached with being tied for so long.

Next, an elfin soldier hurried into the hall, carrying a burden wrapped in rough cloth. As if he was afraid to touch its contents himself, he opened the bundle with a flourish and dumped three swords onto the flagstones.

Ghostcutter, Dawnbringer, and Acidtongue.

Croy’s arms felt like they were being torn from their sockets. He gasped in pain and his eyes shot open. He was still only semiconscious, but the pain was good-it helped drag him back from the black void he’d been swimming through.