David Chandler - A thief in the night

Ahead of him, Morget clucked his tongue. A small sound, but in that empty place it made too many echoes. Croy hurried forward to chide his friend for disturbing the stillness.

Yet when he saw what Morget had found, he let out a quiet sigh himself.

Lying on the flagstones was the body of a dwarf. The corpse’s face and hands had been slashed violently, and its blood pooled beneath it and ran away through the cracks between the flagstones. In the reddish light of the streetlamps, the blood looked almost black. An expression of utter terror had frozen on the poor dwarf’s face.

It was not Slag. “A dwarf, here? He didn’t come with us, and we know the builders of this place abandoned it long, long ago,” Croy whispered, shaking his head. “What does this mean? What is he doing here?”

“It means the Vincularium is getting crowded,” Morget said, frowning. “Perhaps we were followed. Perhaps this dwarf came in on our heels, hoping to steal something of value while we fought the demon.”

Croy shook his head. “Dwarves don’t steal. Nor do they have any interest in their own history. Or at least, I thought they didn’t. There are abandoned dwarven cities and mines all over the continent, and I’ve never heard of dwarves returning to any of them before. Honestly, I was quite surprised when Slag said he wanted to come here. In my experience, dwarves are content to leave their old places to molder and collapse. Yet here we see evidence to the contrary-this dwarf must have come here for some good reason. But why? It’s a mystery. I’ll admit I’m confounded.”

“Does it really matter?” Morget said.

“In times of danger, the unknown is one’s greatest enemy. At the very least I’d like to know how he died. If we knew who killed this dwarf, we might be better prepared when they come for us, next.” Croy knelt down to close the corpse’s eyelids. The flesh did not resist him. “He died recently,” he whispered. “He’s not even stiff yet. And these wounds weren’t made by your demon, I can tell that much. These are sword cuts.”

Morget nodded but wasn’t looking at the body. He was staring down a side street. Croy looked and saw the end of a rope lying on the flagstones. It ran toward one of the towers, and then up its side.

“That looks like some kind of trap,” Croy suggested. “Dwarves make them all the time. Perhaps this poor fellow was hoping to catch his killer in it.”

Morget approached the rope cautiously-then reached up and pulled it down, even as Croy waved his hands in warning. The rope fell with a thud from the top of the tower in an untidy coil. The other end was tied off in a loop to make a snare. “This trap was not set properly. There’s no counterweight,” he said.

Croy raised an eyebrow.

“In the East we make similar snares, for hunting,” Morget explained. “You suggested the dwarf must have been setting this trap when he was killed. Which meant he wanted to ensnare someone up there.” The barbarian pointed at the top of the tower. “Maybe the killer came from on high.” Before Croy could stop him, Morget scurried up the ladder.

Croy followed close behind, not wanting to get separated. When they reached the rooftop, he found it deserted and empty. Morget gave the barest of glances around, then went to the edge of the roof to look down.

Croy took a slightly closer look-and found something that excited him. “Here,” he said, running a finger across a small grouping of pits in the stone at his feet. “Look! These marks were made by vitriol.” Morget looked at him without comprehension. “Acid! I’ve seen similar spoor before, many times. Malden must have been here, holding Acidtongue. The blade drips its essence constantly, etching the floor wherever it’s drawn. Malden was here!”

“Malden stood here, yes. He must have been under attack as well, for he was holding a naked blade,” Morget said. “Perhaps that explains this.” He went back to the side of the roof and pointed down. Another dwarf lay on a rooftop far below, half its body cloaked by shadow. Its face was even more bloody than the other’s. Croy couldn’t even tell if it had been male or female. “The dwarves must have beset our little thief. He defended himself ably.”

Croy shook his head. “No-Malden didn’t slay these dwarves. He couldn’t have. Our laws are very strict on that sort of thing.”

“And he is known for abiding your laws,” Morget said. “Our thief?”

Croy supposed the barbarian had a point. Malden was a criminal. But he wasn’t a killer. Croy had known him long enough to understand that Malden had his own moral code. It might be quite liberal, and include all kinds of things that he himself wouldn’t countenance, but Malden wouldn’t kill unless his life depended on it. And no dwarf would ever attack a human, not unless they had no choice. So how could such a fight have even started? “I just don’t know,” Croy admitted. “This does mean one thing, though.”

“Oh?” Morget asked.

“Malden was here. Not so long ago. And that means Cythera must be close by. We’re on the right track.”

“Good,” Morget said. “The sooner we find her, the sooner we can get back to our real purpose here.” He headed to the edge of the roof and started climbing down the tower. Croy followed close behind, invigorated by what they’d found.

They began to head deeper into the residential level, toward a place where the walls narrowed to a point, when Croy called a halt.

Morget grimaced in annoyance at yet another delay, but he waited expectantly while Croy craned his ears back the way they’d come.

“I know I heard something back there. A grunt of pain-or fear,” Croy insisted.

“Then we are best served going the other way. We cannot waste time investigating every little noise.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Croy said, and started walking forward again-only to freeze in his tracks a moment later.

“No!” someone screamed. He didn’t recognize the voice but it had a dwarven accent. “No, you stinking sack of pus! You can’t have him! Get back!”

“Someone’s in trouble,” Croy said.

“Good! One less enemy for us!” Morget growled. But Croy had already turned on his heel and was headed back into the dormitory. His boots beat like drumsticks on the flagstones as he pulled Ghostcutter free of its scabbard. He came around a sharp corner toward the fountain, then drew up short as he viewed a scene of horror.

The demon-one of the demons-had come to claim the body of the dead dwarf. Its amorphous mass had flowed over the lower half of the corpse and it was absorbing the rest while Croy watched.

Yet not without resistance. Another dwarf-a female-beat at the faces under the demon’s skin with a wrench. She had a bad cut across her face and another gash in her leg, but she battled more fiercely than a wounded badger. Still, she couldn’t possibly win. Already the demon reached a thick tendril of its substance toward her, clearly intending to have two meals for the effort of securing one.

She looked up when Croy approached and stared at him with blazing eyes. “Stop fiddling with your dubious manhood and help me!”

Croy leapt in immediately, slashing away with Ghostcutter at the demon’s thick skin. Its glassy blood poured out in gouts but it only redoubled its efforts at seizing the female dwarf, shooting forth a second rope of pale flesh to snare her ankle. She fell backward, her arms wheeling in the air, and dropped her wrench. Inch by inch the demon started reeling her in.

“I’ve never seen them do that before,” Morget said, rushing in to slice through the tendril with one quick stroke of Dawnbringer. The blade flashed with light as the dwarf tumbled free.