David Chandler - A thief in the night

Malden ran over to where Cythera stood and whispered, “Will he perish?”

“Yes,” she said, looking him right in the eye. “Whether it happens in the next few minutes, though, or as much as a day from now, I can’t say. Not without knowing what kind of poison was on this dart, how much of a dose he received-and a hundred other things I can’t begin to guess at.”

“You must know an antidote, though. Surely there is one!”

“If I could get him out of here-if I could bring him to Coruth, perhaps. But she’s hundreds of miles away.”

“We have to try. If he has any chance at all.” He reached over and took her hand. “Cythera, I know you won’t want to hear it. But this means we have to escape from the Vincularium as fast as we can. We can’t go looking for Croy.”

Her mouth formed a hard line but she didn’t look away from his eyes.

“You’re right,” she said. The words came as if they’d been dragged out of her.

Malden nodded and turned around, intending to build some kind of litter out of the tents they carried in their packs. He stopped, though, when he saw that Slag was crawling across the floor.

“Stop that this instant,” Cythera said.

Slag halted his forward progress. Yet he looked up at them and said, “Fuck off. I know I’m dying. You don’t have to fucking whisper about it. Before I go, though, I have to see what’s behind that door. I have to know if it’s still there.”

“What was that sound, just now?” Croy asked.

Morget turned and shook his head to indicate he’d heard nothing.

“It sounded like someone screaming, very far away.”

The barbarian stopped where he was and tilted his head to one side. “Nothing,” he said. “Perhaps a gust of wind, howling through these ruins. Did it sound to you like your woman?”

“… No,” Croy admitted. “You must be right. Let’s hurry onward, all the same.”

They had found a spiral ramp that led upward to a higher level. A thin stream of water rolled down the ramp and made their footing precarious, but Croy was able to climb with one hand along the rough stone wall.

At the top of the ramp they found a long, low tunnel, perhaps twenty feet wide, its ceiling not much higher than their heads. It ran away from them into darkness. Croy hardly trusted his sense of direction at that point, but he believed the tunnel headed back in the direction of the main shaft.

The floor was slick with water, and a thin vapor coiled around his ankles. The tunnel was filled with broad stone racks, standing in uniform rows. Each rack had four shelves, and each shelf was packed tight with a type of object he didn’t recognize. They were cylindrical in shape, though some were squatter than others, and some taller. Each was wrapped tightly in coarse fabric with a broad weave. They gave off a peculiar smell of dampness and must, and Croy thought they must be rotting away after so long underground in the wet.

Farther along the corridor, narrow side passages opened to either side. Morget took the one on the left, Croy on the right, and when they came back together in the center they each could report they’d seen the same thing-more long, wet corridors, more racks, myriad more cylinders wrapped in fabric. There were at least a dozen such tunnels, and every one was filled in exactly the same manner.

Croy’s curiosity got the better of him. He mounted his candle on top of one rack to free his hands. Then he lifted one of the cylinders from the rack and carefully unwrapped it. It was heavier than he’d expected it to be, but once open, it crumbled and fell apart easily. Inside the fabric he found three pounds of stinking black dirt. Clods of it broke off and pattered down along his cloak and struck his boots. A trickle of fine dirt rolled down the sleeve of his jerkin. Peering close in the darkness, he made out pale shapes inside the dark dirt, so he broke open the larger clods for a closer inspection. Growing inside the dirt were yellow-white fans of pulpy fungus.

“This is a farm,” he said, surprised. “Of course, the dwarves couldn’t grow proper crops down here-but mushrooms prosper under the earth. They don’t need the sun. All they need is a little damp. And some… night soil.”

He stared down at his filthy hands.

Morget stared at him. “What is that on your skin? It smells like shit.”

Croy dropped the unwrapped cylinder. Hurriedly, he bent down and washed his hands in the thin stream of water covering the floor.

Morget leaned over to sniff at one of the cylinders. Then he looked at Croy where he squatted. The barbarian let out a booming laugh that echoed wildly in the low-ceilinged tunnel.

“Ha ha ha,” he crowed. “Ha ha! The fancy knight has gotten himself all dirty! This is funny!”

Croy fought down a homicidal impulse and breathed deeply to clear his head. It was, after all, a little funny. He forced himself to smile. Then he rose to his full height and bowed deeply.

Morget was weeping from laughing so hard. He bent from the waist-it was not a bow-and then slowly straightened up.

Just in time for Croy to hurl one of the cylinders at his chest.

The cloth tore open on impact and three pounds of manure splattered across Morget’s laced-up cloak. Some of it got on his face.

“You-” Morget howled, and his hands came up to claw at the air. His eyes went wide with pure, unadulterated rage.

Maybe, Croy thought, I just made a mistake.

As Morget’s hands started to come down, Croy dashed sideways into the racks. He ducked low to hide himself from view. He could hear Morget rushing toward him, perhaps intent on slaughtering him for the insult.

The barbarian was twice Croy’s size. He held an Ancient Blade equal to Croy’s own, and plenty of other weapons he could use in his weak hand. If the two of them came to blows, Croy knew it would go hard on him.

He reached down to put a hand on Ghostcutter’s hilt. The barbarian was only steps away. Croy put one foot forward in a strong defensive crouch.

Morget came around the side of the rack, both hands filled with weaponry. Croy raised one arm to protect his face But it was no use. Both cylinders full of manure struck him square on, covering him instantly in filth.

“Oh, for fie,” Croy said, spluttering as wet manure slid down his cheeks and matted his hair. He jumped forward but Morget had already run away. As Croy came out into the main aisle between the racks, a steady rain of manure cylinders smashed all around him, knocking over racks, exploding on the wet floor until it was a slippery morass. Croy tried to return fire, snatching cylinder after cylinder off the rack, but he could barely sense where Morget hid.

A cylinder struck Croy’s shoulder and spun him around-but for a split second he’d seen Morget’s shaved head sticking up over a rack to his left. Croy ducked low, gathering a pair of cylinders up in his arms as he hurried forward. It was hard to keep his balance on the muck-covered floor, but just as Morget rose to throw again, Croy leapt forward, twisting in midair, and cast first one then the other cylinder, at very close range and with all the power of his arms.

The first cylinder missed Morget and burst against the wall behind him. The second, however, hit Morget squarely in the face. The red stain on his mouth and chin made an excellent target, even in the low light.

Manure splattered over Morget’s features, masking him in excrement. The barbarian tried to howl but only gurgled. He reached up with filthy hands to claw at his eyes, then dropped to his knees and coughed desperately to clear his mouth. For a while he could do nothing but grimace and spit.

Croy slapped him on the back and a thick ball of manure shot out of the barbarian’s windpipe. Morget gasped for breath and nodded his thanks. When he could breathe again, Croy reached down with one hand and grasped Morget’s wrist tightly, helping him to his feet.