David Chandler - A thief in the night

What he saw shocked him even further into wakefulness.

Before him, lying on the ground like the spoils of war, lay three Ancient Blades-Ghostcutter among them. He tried reaching for the sword, only to find his arms were securely fastened behind him. They had been chained together and pulled upward, forcing him to bend low.

It was a kind of torture known well in Skrae-the strap, accounted by some the most painful excruciation of all. As ingenious as it was devious. The chain was not quite long enough to let him stand comfortably, but just long enough that if he tried to drop to his knees it would pull his arms back and wrench them from their sockets. His own body weight would pull him to pieces if he didn’t stand perfectly still, and fatigue would eventually claim him no matter what he did.

The elves… he remembered now. But it wasn’t an elf who’d taken him when he was captured. It was… some human in a priest’s robe, wasn’t it? That made very little sense, and he wondered if he had hallucinated it.

Weariness passed through him in a wave. He longed to just surrender to it, to drift off into sleep. Yet as his eyes fluttered closed his arms were pulled up behind him. The drug in Croy’s system kept him from feeling the pain fully, but every time he tried to move, white light threatened to explode behind his eyeballs.

He stopped struggling-and saw more to confuse and confound him.

Malden was there. Malden-Malden was still alive, he remembered now-Malden was alive, but… but the elves were going to…

Malden dashed toward him, and Croy wondered if he was being rescued. That would be… nice. But no. No, it was too much to hope for. Instead of releasing him from his chains, Malden rushed instead to the swords and snatched Acidtongue from the ground. Croy tried to call to the thief, but before he opened his lips he saw Malden run away again, as if he hadn’t even seen him hanging there. It was all Croy could do to follow Malden with his eyes. The thief was running again, headed over toward a group of elves, elves and-and some others, among them Cythera.

Cythera was alive. She was-alive.

There was a silver chain around her neck but she looked unharmed. He had been living with the fact of her brutal death for so long he could scarce believe it. She was alive! His heart sang, his body thrummed with waves of joy, and Cythera grasped Malden’s face and then leaned in to kiss the thief with passion and desperation.

Was this some drug-induced nightmare? Croy wondered. Had his sanity itself deserted him? He could make no sense at all of what he saw. He could only stare with wide eyes at this vision before him, and hope that it was, in fact, delusion.

Then his arms were hauled upward again and a brilliant wash of pain swarmed over all of his senses. His eyes squeezed shut and he felt his face contort in a grimace of excruciation.

“Knight! Wake up, Sir Knight!”

It was Morget’s voice calling him. Morget his brother, Morget his fellow Ancient Blade. Croy fought through the pain and opened his eyes to look for the barbarian. He found Morget and saw at once that they were chained together. The chain had been looped over a post, high above their heads. Morget hauled downward on the chain, which had the effect of pulling his own arms ever farther, painfully, upward.

“Help me, knight,” Morget demanded. “Are you too addled to even hear me? Help me-pull with all your strength, and we’re free. Our swords are right there-we can fight to freedom.”

Croy watched the barbarian’s face as the words formed. Morget’s red-stained mouth snapped and bit at the sounds. His eyes rolled in fury. It was like the man’s face and his voice were separated, as if the words emerged from him long seconds before his lips started to form them. More hallucinations. More delusions brought on by the drug, of course. How much of this was real?

“Knight! Pull, for all you are worth!” Morget howled.

Croy pulled downward on the chain, and at the same time Morget pulled down on his length of it. Croy nearly lost consciousness as the links bit deep into his wrists, chewing on the tender flesh there.

“Again!” Morget screamed.

Croy pulled downward. The skin on his wrists stretched and tore.

“Again! Once more!”

There was a creaking sound and then a snap, and a piece of wood fell and struck Croy on the ear. It made his head ring. He barely heard the chain rattle and fall and smack the wooden cart. Morget’s booming laugh was the sound of distant thunder.

Croy slumped forward, free of the chain. Free of the only thing that had been holding him upright. He crashed to the stone floor, his face not inches from Ghostcutter’s sheath.

He was… he was free. Free.

He thought he might be sick.

Malden moved slowly, watching always the little knife in Prestwicke’s hand. He circled the priest, heading to his right to keep the knife in view.

Prestwicke didn’t move. He didn’t turn to follow Malden. He didn’t even seem to be watching him very closely.

Prestwicke didn’t so much as flinch as Malden roared and came at him. He stood perfectly still-until the last possible moment, when he stepped away from the descending blade. Acidtongue came crashing down on the flagstones, its foaming vitriol burning a deep trench into the stone. Only when Malden was committed to the swing did Prestwicke move. The priest stepped inside of Malden’s reach until their shoulders touched.

Then he pulled his knife across Malden’s back, digging deep through robe and skin and the muscles beneath.

Malden screamed and staggered forward, past Prestwicke. The weight of Acidtongue dragged him downward until he was doubled over in pain.

For a long while he could do nothing but try to breathe through the agony. Prestwicke could have finished him off easily while he was down, but instead the priest merely stood to one side, waiting for him to get up.

Malden caught his breath. He pushed himself upward, using the sword like a cane. Eventually he regained his feet.

From behind him, he heard a sound as soft as a lover’s whisper. The noise of soft shoes slapping on flagstones. Malden whirled to see Prestwicke dashing at him. The bright knife in his hand came for Malden’s kidney, and Malden just managed to roll away from the attack.

He had let himself get distracted. It nearly cost him his life.

Or, no, not his life. At least not yet. He understood now why Prestwicke had kept to his little knife. Why he was taking so long to finish this. Prestwicke wanted him to bleed. He wanted his blood to flow.

Little cuts, but deep ones. Blood loss would kill him-eventually. Malden had seen men bleed to death before, and he knew how it would progress. He would weaken, and then falter, and then struggle for breath. His skin would pale and his lips turn blue. Eventually he would lose consciousness, and drift off to a sleep from which he would never awake. That was exactly how they said the priests of Sadu had once slaughtered their sacrifices, by bleeding them dry.

It was a painful way to die.

Desperate, driven by fear, Malden wheeled up to his feet, Acidtongue flashing out in a broad arc before him. Prestwicke was nowhere close enough to be cut.

Damn. Malden could feel blood sheeting down his back. The cut there had not severed any of his muscles, but it bit deep enough that he could feel blood rolling down his legs. He did not have much more time.

The priest raised his knife high and started to chant. Malden cast a quick glance toward the onlookers. Cythera looked terrified. Aethil the elf queen was staring with eyes that showed no emotion at all. What was her game? Why had she consented to this grotesque spectacle? Malden knew Slag had beseeched Aethil on his behalf-but surely this wasn’t the dwarf’s idea.