David Chandler - A thief in the night

“Truly?” Morget asked, sounding surprised. “I would think a man of rank like yourself would have a name of importance.”

“You do me too much credit. My mother chose the name. Before me, it belonged to an uncle, her favorite brother. That’s all.”

“It must have come from somewhere,” Morget said.

Croy shrugged. “I imagine my uncle was named after another Croy, perhaps an ancestor. How far back that chain goes I cannot say. Malden and Cythera could probably tell you similar stories. Such is the custom in Skrae.”

Morget shook his head. “Names should have power. In my land, in the East, we say a man’s name is his destiny.”

Croy raised an eyebrow. “An interesting notion. So when you meet a man, you know something of his character right away. Very practical.”

“If you have to fight a man, you want to know if his name means ‘killer’ or ‘coward.’ It’s useful information.”

Croy opened his pack and took out a jug of ale. He sipped at it, then handed it to Slag, who took a deep pull on it. Morget, of course, drank no spirits, so the dwarf handed it back to the knight. “So,” Croy said, “what does Morget mean? Something violent and forceful, no doubt.” He pumped one fist in the air and laughed.

“Hardly. It means simply that I am the son of Morg. Morg’s get.”

“And who’s Morg when he’s not at home?” Slag asked.

Morget looked as if he’d almost rather not say. It was the first time Croy had ever seen the barbarian look less than enthusiastic about something. And yet he knew from Morget’s own lips that his father was a great chieftain of the barbarians, a commander of men.

“Sometimes they call him Morg the Wise. He’s the closest thing we have to a king,” Morget said, his eyes dark.

Croy spread his arms wide. “There you go. A proud name indeed.”

The barbarian ran one thumb along the blade of his axe. “It is not meant that way. It is meant as a mark of shame. Among my people, no man is worth anything but what he seizes for himself. My name is meant to always remind me that I am not special, nor am I to be favored, just because I am the whelp of a great man. I must achieve something great in my life, or my people will always remember me as someone’s child.”

“Once you kill this demon-”

“Then I will change my name. I will have earned a better one.”

“I can see why you would travel so far to carry out your quest,” Croy said.

“Yes. And now you know about my name, for what good it does you. You. Dwarf.”

Slag looked up. He’d started dozing halfway through Morget’s explanation. “Huh, yes?”

“Your name seems strange to me. What is a ‘slag’?”

“Slag is a waste product of the smelting process. It’s just what humans call me. A sodding insult, to be true, though mostly they mean it affectionately.”

“I knew it was unusual,” Croy said, slapping his knee. “I was under the impression all dwarf names end with the suffix ‘in.’ Like Murdlin and Snurrin and Therin.”

“Many do. It means ‘descendant of.’ Murdlin, for instance, is the seventh direct grandson of Murdli, the dwarf who invented the blister process of making steel. One of our great heroes. In our land, that is a mark of honor.”

“We come from very different worlds,” Morget told the dwarf.

“You’re not fucking kidding.”

Croy laughed. “But what’s your actual name, then, Slag? I hate to think this whole time I’ve been calling you after some noxious substance, when you had a real, proud name I could use.”

“It’s not important,” Slag told him.

“Of course it is,” Croy said. “I have nothing but respect for you, and wouldn’t want to insult you, even in affectionate jest. Why, I-”

“Be still,” Morget said, jumping to his feet. The axe in his hand pointed out into the dark.

“I told you, it’s not fucking important,” Slag said, squinting at Croy.

The knight was too busy staring at Morget to hear him.

“What is it?” Croy asked.

“I hear footsteps. And they’re close.”

“Lad, lass, get up,” Slag said, shaking Malden and Cythera to get them moving. Croy paid no attention as the dwarf explained what was happening to them. He had Ghostcutter out of its sheath and was busy preparing himself for a fight.

His first inclination was to douse the lanterns and hide. But there was no good place to cower, and he had a feeling that whatever was out there could probably see better in the dark than he could. It showed no lights of its own. He couldn’t see it at all in the murk but he could definitely hear it now.

Its footsteps were dragging and slow but it was making no attempt to muffle them. And it made another sound, too, a rhythmic scraping sound Croy couldn’t place.

“It’s this way,” Morget said, and pointed into the dark with his axe. “And there’s more than one.”

Croy strained his ears to the limit of their ability to pick up sounds, but he lacked Morget’s wild-born sensitivity. The knight squinted his eyes against the musty darkness and tried to see something. Anything.

And then he had it. A figure, human-shaped, moving toward them very slowly. It wasn’t walking so much as shuffling its feet forward. One arm held something that it dragged along the cobblestones. That was the source of the rhythmic scraping sound they had heard. By the sound of it, the figure was dragging a piece of metal along the cobbles.

“It’s armed,” Croy said, presuming the piece of metal had to be a weapon.

“They all are. And armored.”

“All?” Croy asked, near panic. He fought his fear down. He had to keep the mask of fearlessness in place, if only for the sake of Cythera and the others. In a moment he saw two more figures, just behind the first. It was impossible for him to make out any real detail in the darkness, but they were definitely clad in metal that reflected more light than their pale faces. As they drew steadily closer, he could see a little more. The one in front was dragging a sword. It gleamed yellow along one edge. Like gold-or bronze.

He could see now they were not human. They were far too slender, even when covered in plates of armor. Their heads were longer than a human’s, as were their hands. They wore helmets that hid their ears, but Croy was certain the ears would be pointed if he could see them.

“Elves,” Croy said. “But how? There can’t be any living elves down here, not after so long.”

Apparently there weren’t. As they came even closer, no more than twenty yards away now, he could tell they were dead. The one in front had no eyes in its sockets. Its long, thin nose was partially eaten away, and the skin of one cheek was furry with mold.

Malden came up beside Croy and stared at them. “Ghosts,” he breathed, his voice thick with supernatural dread.

“No,” Croy said. He had fought ghosts before. Those had been thin, ethereal things, almost invisible and utterly silent. The sound the lead elf’s sword made as it dragged along the ground told him these were material creatures. Dead bodies, animated by some foul sorcery and made to walk again. “Revenants,” he corrected. “Malden, keep Cythera safe. Use Acidtongue if you must-I don’t care if you haven’t been trained with a sword. Just don’t let them-”

He stopped because he saw the other two revenants clearly. One had a grinning skull for a face, with tatters of skin hanging from its forehead to obscure one blank eye socket. The other had no head at all.

“Morget, be ready,” Croy said. He’d never faced a revenant in battle before, but had heard tales, and he knew a little of what to expect. “They will attack without attempting to parley. And they will not stop to beg for quarter. They want only our deaths.”