David Chandler - Den of thieves

Bikker.

Croy could hardly believe his eyes. He’d known, certainly, that the two of them would meet again. It was destiny. But here? At this time? It seemed fantastic.

“What in the name of Sadu’s flaming arse are you doing here?” Bikker asked.

Croy could only stare up at the massive warrior. “I might ask you the same.”

“I live here. This is my city,” Bikker snarled.

“I meant-”

“I find myself in no position to answer your questions, Croy. But I will have answers to mine. I say again, what are you doing here? You were banished from Ness, never to return. I remember it well, since I was the one tasked with riding you out of the city gates on a rail.”

Croy remembered that moment himself. The rail had been tied to the back of Bikker’s horse at the time. He had been left bruised and abraded ten miles north of the city with nothing but his swords-even his clothes were ruined by the rough treatment.

“I returned for Cythera, of course,” Croy said. “Once I have guaranteed her safety and her freedom, and once I take care of a few other standing engagements, I’ll leave in peace. You have my word.”

“Doubtful,” Bikker said. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. I know you’re telling the truth. I also know that by ‘standing engagements’ you mean me. You mean my death. And since that’s not likely to happen, well

… Never mind. Tell me what you’re doing here, tonight. Your presence is most inconvenient to my plans.”

In the courtyard something crashed to the ground with a thud that shook Croy’s teeth in his skull. He tried to rise and see what had happened but Bikker just pressed him down again.

He decided the best way to recover his feet was to answer Bikker. “I came to get my swords back. The Burgrave took them from me when he sentenced me to death. I imagine you were there at my hanging-surely you wouldn’t have missed that.”

“I had to leave early,” Bikker said. He wasn’t looking at Croy, but at the ruins of the tower. “I hear it didn’t end well.”

“Oh?” Croy asked.

“You got away. Croy, please do me a favor and keep reaching for the hilt of Ghostcutter. Please, please, try to draw your sword. It will give me the excuse I need to hack you to pieces right now.”

Croy opened his hands wide and stretched them out at his sides. He had known Bikker for a long time. He was quite certain the man was willing to stab him where he lay on the ground, to take his life without the slightest shred of honor or dignity. And yet… he hadn’t so far. He had every opportunity but still let him live. Was it just because Bikker wanted information? Or was it possible there was something still alive in Bikker, some shred of the honor he’d cast off like a stained tunic?

“Surely Hazoth didn’t send you here to kill me,” Croy said. “He could not have known I was here-unless he has been following my movements with a spell.”

Bikker snorted in derision. “The wizard? I doubt he even remembers your name. He has no interest in you one way or another. He has ordered me to be discreet when I’m out in the city. Which is enough to save your life, at least for tonight. Blind me, what is that thing?”

Croy turned his head to look as best he was able at the fresh ruins. He gasped at what he saw. It was as if a nest of gigantic blind asps or equally large worms had been crammed inside one room of the tower and now they were writhing and striking at the air. Yet by the way they moved in concert, he could tell it was a single beast with many arms. Some of its numerous appendages grabbed at the fallen rocks in the courtyard and threw them at the guards that rushed toward it. Other sinuous limbs pushed against what remained of the tower as it tried to drag its enormous bulk out into the night. It made no sound other than a wet slithering.

“Fiend from the pit, do you think?” Bikker asked, with professional interest.

“Or a sorcerous abomination, at the very least,” Croy confirmed. A thought occurred to him. Maybe he had a way of getting back on his feet. “Between Ghostcutter and Acidtongue, we’d stand a chance against it.”

“Just like old times, hmm?” Bikker asked. “Is that what you’re thinking?” He pulled at his beard, the way he always did when he was unable to make a decision. Croy understood, despite himself. The old times had never seemed older. Yet the two of them took an oath once, an oath on their souls. Such things died hard.

“That, and that we could save a number of innocent lives,” Croy said.

“Bah,” Bikker said, but Croy could tell his heart wasn’t fully in the disdain.

The guards and the men of the watch were already peppering the demon with arrows. The missiles seemed without effect, so a detachment of guards were approaching it with halberds at the ready. As they watched, a tentacle lashed out and threw one poor guardsman half across the courtyard. The man landed in a crump of dented mail and broken bones from which he did not rise.

“Both you and I have good reason to flee this place before our faces are seen,” Bikker said.

“And better reason to stay,” Croy insisted. “When was the last time Acidtongue did what it was made for? A bloodied sword-”

“Is a sword that doesn’t rust,” Bikker finished. He looked disgusted for a moment. Disgusted, perhaps, with himself. Then he took his boot off Croy’s chest and offered him a hand up.

It was all Malden could do to hold on. His strength was no match for the demon’s, even with half its arms crushed under the fallen tower.

But he would not let go of the crown.

In the last moment before the tower collapsed, Malden’s luck had returned in trumps. The doorway that had been jammed shut by the demon’s bulk collapsed in front of him, its stones shattered by the creature’s thrashing. Suddenly the way back to the moonlit corridor was open-and he was given a chance at survival.

He had nearly squandered it. Because even as the tower was collapsing over his head, when the stone was shrieking and roaring and smashing all around him, he heard a voice calling him. A voice of authority that demanded respect. A voice that could have commanded nations.

Thief, the voice had said. And that was all. It had not been his ears that heard the voice, of that he was certain. Though it sounded exactly like someone shouting just behind him, he knew the voice was inside his head.

He turned away from escape and safety to see who had spoken. It was not the demon-the thing had no voice, and even if it could speak, it would not have sounded like that. It was a human voice. Which meant, absurd as it might sound, that it was the crown that spoke. The simple golden coronet of the Burgrave.

Malden’s childhood had been full of tales of statues that could speak, and of talking animals that were secretly men under the curses of dire sorcery. Those were simple tales, made to entertain. Yet magic was real enough. He was almost willing to accept that a crown could talk, even if he hadn’t heard it himself.

When it spoke again, all doubts flew away.

Thief, do not let me be entombed here.

Malden reached out then, heedless of the demon’s thrashing arms, and grabbed the crown out of the air. The fact that a slender tentacle was still wrapped around its other side did not matter. When that voice spoke, something inside Malden had no choice but to listen. He had grasped the crown, and then thrown himself clear of the collapsing tower, into the trapped palace corridor beyond. When the earth stopped shaking and the demon was crushed under a dozen tons of broken stone, Malden found himself lying on the floor dazed and bruised but with the fingers of one hand still clutching the crown.