David Chandler - A thief in the night

Malden turned to look at her. “Oh?”

“He isn’t mad. At least… I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “The sacrament he took, did you see it? That was a cap of death’s helm mushroom. A very rare fungus, and very, very dangerous. It’s used sometimes in witchcraft, though my mother claims it’s a crutch for those who lack the proper gift of second sight. A few shavings, when steeped properly in a tea, will grant visions of other times. Vivid, terrifying visions-powerful glimpses of other lives. The visions are not phantoms either, but true memories of those who lived before. It’s a seductive drug. Take too much of it and your-well, call it your soul-can become lost and not be able to find its way back to its own body. If he eats entire caps at once, on anything like a regular basis, I don’t know how he could ever know what time he was in. Did you see his eyes?”

“The pupils were different sizes.”

“Yes,” Cythera said. “I think his individual eyes were looking into different times. If I’m right, that explains the merrymakers as well.”

“An unusual lot,” Malden said.

“All there for his benefit. Playing out a scene, a great torrent of sensual delights, to entice him to stay close to his own body.”

“Let’s hope they don’t falter, then,” Malden said. “At least, not before he remembers what he wanted us for.”

Slag snorted. “More like, not until he fucking forgets again. The longer it takes him, the longer we don’t have to find out what our fate is to be.”

That sent a new twinge of fear and pain up Malden’s spine.

The side corridor ended in another hall, this one much smaller. It opened via a narrow window onto the central shaft. Spiral staircases pierced its floor, leading down to a lower level.

“I’ll ready the gaolers,” one of the elf soldiers said, and descended with a torch.

For a moment, then, they were allowed to just stop and stand there. It was a blessed relief. Malden considered sitting down on the dusty floor to give his legs a rest but didn’t want to risk the displeasure of his captives.

Slag started walking toward the window. One of the elves drew his sword, but Slag didn’t stop. When he reached the opening, he placed his hands on the sill and Malden thought he might intend to climb over and jump out. Instead the dwarf just looked upward, his body shaking with sobs.

Malden realized that this was the first time Slag had seen the manufactured sun of the Vincularium. He went over to look up at it with the dwarf. “It came to life a while back, like dawn breaking.”

“It’s fucking beautiful,” Slag said.

“Your ancestors made it?” Malden asked.

“It’s certain as shitting the elves did not. Look at those pipes coming out of the top. They must carry flammable gas to the lamp… there are pockets of such vapors everywhere underground. They’re a hazard when you’re digging a mine-but the builders of this place must have found a way to harness the stuff. I’ll be buggered.”

The thief smiled. “Strange. I was always under the impression that dwarves hated the true sun and shunned its light. Isn’t it odd they should make their own, here under the ground?”

“ ’Tis a puzzler,” Slag agreed. “True sunlight burns my skin and dazzles my eyes. Yet this is a different color, and somehow that makes a difference. It’s almost soothing to look upon. Hah. Thur-Karas. Place of Long Shadows. I understand now.” He glanced up at Malden. “Lad, leave me be a moment, will you? I want to see this by myself a bit. I have a feeling I won’t get another chance.”

Malden squeezed the dwarf’s shoulder, then went back to stand next to Cythera. The elves eyed him warily but offered no threat. When Cythera slipped her hand into Malden’s, two of the guards nudged each other and traded leering winks.

Malden ignored them, and focused his attention on the soft hand in his. Cythera’s fingers trembled along with her pulse. He tried to meet her gaze, but she just looked straight ahead, lost in her own thoughts.

It was not much longer before the elf returned from below to announce that the gaol was ready to receive them.

The elves led them down the spiral staircase to a dark room below. The walls were unadorned and the floor was covered in a thick layer of wet silt. They must be very near the bottom of the shaft, Malden thought-and this room must periodically flood with water. In the middle of the room was a cage made of wooden bars, large enough to hold a dozen prisoners.

His bladder started to give way when he saw where he’d be held. He forced himself not to soil his hose, but it wasn’t easy.

The gaolers came forward to receive the prisoners. There was no formal ceremony involved, which made sense since the gaolers were revenants. One was missing both eyes and part of his cheek. The other had no face at all. The living elf soldiers treated the revenants with a certain disdain that seemed odd to Malden-these were, after all, the undead remains of their own ancestors, and he’d been told the elves worshipped their forebears. Yet the soldiers spoke to the revenants the way a man would speak to his dog. It confused him, but he had other concerns to occupy him.

The gate of the gaol was opened and Cythera was forced inside. She grabbed at the bars and stared out at Malden, as if asking him silently to do something, to do something right now. To make some grand gesture of bravery and save them all.

He could do nothing. Without waiting to be pushed, he entered the cage. Slag followed, his head drooping against his chest.

The gate of the cage was closed and locked behind them. Then the living elves filed out of the room, while the two revenants took up positions on either side of the stairwell. Once they were in place, the gaolers remained utterly motionless. Each had a bronze sword held before him, its point touching the stone floor. They looked like grisly statues more than animate things.

There was no light in the room save what filtered down through the stairwell. Just a few stray beams to divide the shadows. There was no furniture in the stockade other than a pair of buckets. Malden could guess what those were for.

He went to the far side of the stockade and sat down in the silt. His breeches were instantly ruined but he couldn’t bear the thought of standing any longer. All strength seemed to have fled him as his fear transformed into despair.

Eventually Cythera came and joined him. She put her head on his shoulder but did not speak. Slag stood awhile longer, but Malden could see the dwarf swaying on his feet. Eventually weariness overcame Slag-he was still recovering from being poisoned, after all, and the violent purgative of the antidote-and he sat as well.

And then… nothing happened.

A great deal of nothing. A long span of nothing, not even talk. Time passed, though it felt like it did not.

They might have been hours in that place before anything occurred. Days might have passed down there-Malden had no way to measure the time, other than by how hungry he grew. The air around him seemed to hang as motionless as their revenant guards, and each breath he took was like some crime against the terrible timelessness of that place where nothing ever changed.

Eventually a loaf of mealy bread was brought down to them and tossed through the bars. Malden caught it before it landed in the muck, then broke it carefully in three pieces and shared it out.

When it was consumed, they went back to doing nothing.

In time Cythera began to snore. They had all gone a very long while without sleep. Malden made a pillow of his cloak and laid her head gently upon it, so her face would not be in the silt. Then he headed over toward where Slag sat by the gate. He could no longer stand the silence or the waiting. He intended to get a conversation going, regardless of what the dwarf might want.