David Chandler - Den of thieves

It was the sign of weakness he had put off as long as he could. He’d finally broken. Bikker took it for exactly what it was-a call to attack, which he executed with a flurry of devastating blows, one after another. Croy managed to parry them, but not without cost. He had to stagger backward, away from the fight, and wince as the pain threatened to overcome him. He forced his eyes to stay open, to keep watching, to keep assessing the situation.

His shield was reduced to a few sticks of sizzling oak held together by a melting boss. Far worse, the shortsword was etched and notched each time it parried Acidtongue’s attacks. Croy could feel his sword growing weaker and less stable with each passing moment.

The weapon was still in better shape than the man, though, and that was the real problem. Already weakened by multiple wounds and loss of blood, Croy’s endurance was reaching its end very quickly. Just lifting his sword arm took a great effort and he was gasping for breath. Sweat rolled down into his eyes and he could taste the salt when it trickled across his lips. Proper swordsmanship was as much about the legs as the arms-he could hear Bikker’s voice in his head from back when the bigger swordsman had taught him how to fight. You need to move when a sword comes at your face, boy, lunge forward with your knee when you riposte, dance if you want to stay alive. His legs felt like they were made of solid wood. He could barely get his feet off the ground without falling over.

A sweeping blow came at his injured side, Acidtongue spitting as it burned through the air. Croy barely brought the shortsword down to counter. Acidtongue flew back to recover from the parry and then whistled over Bikker’s head as he brought his corroded sword up for a high slice. Croy shoved the fuming remnants of his shield up into the blow but lacked the strength to hold it back completely. Using Acidtongue like a club, Bikker knocked the shield into Croy’s teeth. Croy’s entire skull rattled and he felt his brains slosh back and forth.

So tired.

Parry. He tried a riposte but found the shortsword tangled in Acidtongue’s withdrawal.

His body was failing him.

Parry. Step back, away from the lunge, one foot behind the other to make his body a narrower target. Acidtongue jabbed past his face, and he batted it away like a cat batting at a piece of string-and just as effectually.

He was going to collapse.

Yielding parry-catching Acidtongue just before it cut his throat, taking Acidtongue’s foible with the shortsword’s forte. A classic parry perfectly executed, which should have given him an ideal chance to counterattack. By the time he saw the opportunity, however, Bikker was dancing away.

Croy knew he was doomed.

Acidtongue came rushing toward his shield. It might be a feint, which he should ignore. He lacked the strength to turn into the rush. Acidtongue picked apart the shield, scattering its pieces. Croy’s left was suddenly exposed and undefended. Bikker howled in joy and twisted around, whipping Acidtongue about and building to a slash that would cut open Croy’s belly and spill his guts on the ground.

One last shred of strength remained in Croy’s body. He used it up stabbing downward with the shortsword, driving its point into the ground to make a wall against Acidtongue’s slash. The shortsword wobbled, good dwarven steel pushed past its limits of flexibility. Acidtongue cut through it like a ribbon. Fragments of steel flew everywhere, one of them cutting through the skin of Croy’s cheek. The sword that remained was nothing but a hilt with a jagged inch or two of blade sticking out of it. He dropped the hilt, then closed his eyes and sank down on one knee.

He couldn’t lift his head. His neck was perfectly exposed. Acidtongue could cut through flesh without resistance when it was hot and singing with battlelust. One cut and Bikker could take his head off.

Croy couldn’t lift it. He was just too tired.

Cythera, he thought, I love you. I am so sorry.

The blow didn’t come.

Croy opened his eyes but still couldn’t move. He looked down at the grass beneath him. It looked very soft, and he thought it would be nice to fall, face forward, into its green embrace. One shard of his broken sword lay on the ground there, etched but still shining with polish.

Bikker still hadn’t killed him. What was he waiting for?

“Look at me, Croy.”

Slowly, painfully, Croy lifted his head and met his foe’s eyes. Bikker’s face was wild, his eyes mad. Froth flecked his lips.

“Good,” Bikker said. “That’s taken care of. Draw Ghostcutter. Playtime is over. Now we’ll fight like men.”

Malden kept his eyes shut until he was sure the hellish light of sorcery had drained from the room. His hand clenched tight at the hilt of his bodkin, and he started to draw it, careful not to make a sound.

When the glare faded from the inside of his eyelids, he opened his eyes again and saw Hazoth still before him. Something had changed, something he noticed only in his peripheral vision, but he focused entirely on the sorcerer. Hazoth was breathing heavily and his hands were down by his sides. Malden bent his legs like springs and then jumped, thrusting the bodkin before him so it would cut right through the sorcerer’s belly and come out the other side.

He fully expected Hazoth to turn and glare at him, eyes blazing with some spell that would tear his flesh from his bones. Or perhaps Hazoth would simply vanish before he could reach him. Instead he caught the magician completely off guard. He felt the point of the bodkin part the fibers of the sorcerer’s nightshirt, felt it sink into the hated flesh, felt it scrape on bone. He pushed and shoved with all his might until it broke free from the sorcerer’s back. He did not feel hot blood pour over his hand, but that surprised him less than the look on Hazoth’s face.

The sorcerer simply looked disappointed.

Malden fell backward, pulling the bodkin free. He stared down at the length of iron in his hand and saw no blood on it, nor ichor nor living fire nor any of the things he supposed might flow through a sorcerer’s veins. He looked up and saw the hole he’d cut through the nightshirt… but the flesh underneath wasn’t even scarred.

“A violent response to a threatening stimulus. The hallmark of an unenlightened being. Rodent, you have surprised me so many times tonight-now you prove that there is a limit to what a primitive creature can do with cunning. Ah, well. I suppose even the most advanced of the species must eventually revert to rodentlike behavior. Oh, and now look at what you’ve gone and done.”

Cythera cried out. Malden looked over at her and saw her staring at the palm of her left hand. The ink there looked like it was boiling. Flowers bloomed and their petals fell away, driven up her arm by a howling wind entirely contained within her skin. Vines circled around her wrist so tight they looked like they would constrict her pulse. On her face a hundred snowdrops wilted, while roses erupted in blossom across her shoulders, their thorns gleaming with painted poison.

It would seem the link that bound Cythera to Hazoth wasn’t just for inimical magic. It could absorb physical damage as well.

“Cythera!” Malden shouted. “No-please, forgive me, I didn’t know-”

“It’s… all right, Malden,” she said, straightening up. “It doesn’t pain me. It just startles me a bit when it happens, that’s all.”

Hazoth looked from one of them to the other. Then he clucked his tongue and faced Malden again. “You interested me, briefly. That’s why I’ve let you live for so long. But not for your animal passions, rodent. For the way you seemed to exceed the limitations of your upbringing. But now I see you’ve only been so clever, so brave, for one thing-that prize Cythera keeps between her legs.” He shook his head sadly. “Pathetic. I’m afraid that attacking me was the last mistake I can permit you.”