David Chandler - A thief in the night

The guard was taken completely by surprise. Had Malden any training with his sword, he could have taken the elf unawares and cut him in half. Instead he merely managed to swing at the guard’s head, and miss completely.

Behind him, he heard a great clattering of bronze armor as the other elves-he didn’t bother to count how many-came rushing to attack him. The guard he’d threatened lifted his own weapon high in both hands, ready to defend himself.

“What a fool,” one of the elves said. “Take him.”

It had never been Malden’s plan to fight his way out, however. “Hold,” he called, and shoved Acidtongue back into its glass-lined scabbard. “I surrender.” He lifted both hands in the air, fingers spread wide to show he meant it.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cythera dab a drop of the antidote on her finger and stick it down Slag’s throat.

The dwarf gagged and spat, but she held her hand where it was.

“What is she doing?” One of the elves came forward. He wore a circlet of fine silver on his brow, and his armor was in far better condition than the others’. He had a short cape across his shoulders made of very fine cloth, and as he walked he leaned on a slim-bladed sword as if it were a cane. Malden decided he must be the commander of this elfin company. He grabbed Cythera’s hand out of the dwarf’s mouth and held it up to the light.

She stared at him with fierce defiance, but the look in her eyes burned out quickly. When she’d lost her rage, she stared down at her feet.

“Milord,” one of the soldiers near Malden said. “What should we do with him?”

The lord’s face flared with anger. “Get his sword away from him, obviously! And then strip him naked and check him for other weapons. And then-and I really shouldn’t have to tell you this sort of thing again — beat him until he can’t get up.”

Malden’s eyes went wide. He considered drawing Acidtongue and fighting desperately for his life, but he knew that was futile. Reasoning with the elf might prove the better course. He kept his hands above his head as an elf soldier unbuckled his sword belt and took away his bodkin. “I offer you no resistance. I’ve hurt none of you!”

The elfin commander favored him with a thin smile. “And I have express orders to take you alive, if possible.” His eyes twinkled. “But you know, I’ve never actually seen a human before. I’m curious what color your blood is. Finding out might alleviate a little tedium.”

An elf grabbed Malden’s cloak and tore it from his neck. Malden’s bad arm was wrenched badly in the process and he cried out in pain.

“No!” Cythera shouted. She tried to run toward Malden, but the elf commander still held her hand. He must have been stronger than he looked, because she couldn’t break his grip. “No, you can’t, I–I love him!” she screamed.

“Why, that just adds a certain-” the commander began, but then stopped abruptly and stared at Slag.

The dwarf convulsed around his middle and made a horrible gagging sound. Then he leaned forward and vomited all over the foundry floor. Great gouts of black liquid rolled across the flagstones, edging toward the bronze boots of the elfin soldiers.

Every single one of them danced backward, gasping in disgust. Not one of them stood their ground-not even the commander, who yelped like a girl.

Suddenly Malden, Cythera, and especially Slag were standing alone, with no one guarding them or in a position to stop them from running away. Malden would have made a break for it, except that he was watching Slag. The dwarf slumped forward, falling down into the pool of his own sick. Then he vomited again. The elves cringed backward again, while Cythera bent down to grab Slag’s shoulders and pull him back before he drowned in his own vomit.

“In the name of the ancestors-what a stink!” the elfin commander wailed. He pulled his cape up around his nose and mouth and wiped at the tears that dripped from his eyes. “I’ll have no more of this.” He turned and started walking toward the lift.

One of the soldiers managed to regain enough composure to ask, “But milord, what should we do with the prisoners?”

This is the moment he orders us all killed, Malden thought. This is the end.

But it seemed the lord had lost his desire to see the color of human blood. “Follow your orders! I don’t really care!” he shouted back over his shoulder.

Stepping gingerly over the mess on the floor, the soldiers moved in and grabbed at Malden’s arms. He offered them no resistance at all. Others grabbed Cythera, who didn’t even look at them-she was clearly too concerned for the health of the dwarf. There was a great deal of discussion and argument over what should be done with Slag. None of the elves wanted to touch him, and they argued bitterly over which of them should have to do it. In the end, the three of them were searched and all their possessions taken way. Then they were marched toward a section of the wall that looked different from the rest. It was made of crude brick, and when an elf pushed on it, it opened like a door. Beyond lay a narrow tunnel bored inexpertly through the rock.

Croy signaled for Morget to come forward. It looked like the way was clear. They had been traveling for miles through empty halls and dusty corridors, intentionally staying away from any place that looked like it might have been recently occupied. It wasn’t difficult-the enormous volume of the Vincularium seemed mostly to be deserted, unused for centuries. However many elves might still live, there certainly weren’t enough of them to fill the place up. So far they’d seen no more elves or demons or revenants or anything else.

Croy imagined that a paltry few survivors must be clinging to life in some tiny corner of the vast place, as afraid of the haunted corridors as he had been. He thought of how they had blundered through the place, all through its long night, and not seen any elves at all until the dwarven sun had come to life. Perhaps if they’d been quicker, if they hadn’t been separated by the revenants, they could have gotten into the place, killed one of the demons, and gotten out before the elves even knew they were there. How he longed it had been so. Morget would have been satisfied, his manhood thoroughly proven. He and Cythera could have left without incident. This whole adventure could have been over in a few hours. Something they could laugh about whenever they recalled it in their later life, something to tell their grandchildren about.

Instead, now, he had slogged for hours through a place that offered death at every turning.

He estimated they had come halfway around the central shaft, and passed through miles of dark rock, when they came into the dormitory level.

He gestured for Morget to follow him while he crept forward, seeking danger wherever it might hide. The two of them crept up a spiral ramp into the reddish light of this new level. A wide plaza opened onto another gallery before them. Croy stood well back from the opening on the central shaft-there was no telling who or what might be watching, and he tried to stay out of the light as much as possible.

Silently, he moved away from the gallery, deeper into the level. In his hand Ghostcutter moved back and forth, covering every shadow.

This place was supposed to be deserted-yet clearly it was not. The revenants on the top level, the demons on the lower floors, were not the only enemies he must be wary of. Elves might be the worst threat yet. They would be capable of subterfuge, of laying traps and ambushes. As he studied this new district he was constantly in fear of discovery.

He found himself in a place of narrow towers and squat structures that must have been residences for dwarves long since gone. It looked a great deal like the living quarters he’d seen in more modern dwarven cities-unadorned, perfectly functional, but far from what a human would have considered so. It differed only in that here there were so many more rooms than he was used to, so many that they had to be piled atop each other in great towers. He leaned in through the door of one of the low rooms and saw only scraps of rotting wood-what had been furniture, perhaps, centuries ago. Now it was nothing but rubbish. He stepped back outside and continued his search. Moving carefully through the red-lit lanes, he saw that outside each tower stood a spherical lamp on a pole. A fountain stood in the midst of the towers, its spouts crusted with white mineral deposits now, but the water still flowed. It smelled faintly of sulfur, but it was clear and free of scum. He stopped to take up a handful and scrub some of the grime off his face.