David Chandler - Den of thieves

A thin shard of iron slid free from the shell and clattered to the floor. Red light shot out of the gap thus made.

“He will not rest until he has devoured you,” Hazoth went on. “Night and day he will chase you. He could follow your trail for hundreds of miles, even if you do manage to escape this room. I don’t think there’s any reason why Cythera should have to watch you die. She seems quite taken with you. So I’ll leave you to your fate.”

Malden shrank back from the egg as it rattled and shook and more shards of iron fell away. “Hazoth!” he shouted. “You said that after eight hundred years, magic had corrupted the Burgrave, yes?”

The sorcerer frowned. “I suppose.”

“What of the enchantments on your own self? After so many centuries, what have they done to your soul?”

Hazoth lifted his hand in the gesture that would transport him and Cythera out of the room. “An interesting question, but one that seems quite moot. You’ll never learn the answer, I’m afraid.”

Malden threw his arm across his eyes as light burst all around him. When it faded he was alone in the great hall.

Though not for long.

The egg continued to hatch as he watched, horrified. For a moment he couldn’t move, so transfixed was he by the spectacle of the demon’s birth. Then the thing inside the egg howled in utter pain, and he found his feet once more.

Many doors led away from the great hall. The obvious choice was the massive portal that opened onto the front lawn. If he could get out there he could get a head start before the demon came in pursuit.

That would, of course, only delay his doom. Besides, he had another scheme in mind.

He hurried to a door on one side wall, between two statues. It was the door that led eventually to the library, the same way he’d been taken on his first visit to the house. The door was locked but the mechanism was quite simple and perfectly ordinary. Malden hurriedly unwrapped his picks and wrenches from the hilt of his bodkin.

Behind him a clawed hand emerged from the egg and stretched raw flesh in the cold air. The demon started hauling itself out of its prison.

Hands shaking in fear, Malden stared at the rakes and hooks he held. Then he dropped them and kicked at the door until the flimsy lock shattered. When the door swung free he turned and glanced once more at the cracking egg, for a spare fraction of a moment.

What he saw made him yelp in terror.

Bikker was sweating. He wiped his brow with the back of one hand.

That was the extent of what Croy’s best efforts to kill him had achieved. His tunic was cut in a number of places, but that only showed that the mail shirt he wore underneath it was unbroken. Croy’s arm hadn’t been strong enough to pierce the chain mail, even with the good dwarven steel of the shortsword.

“Get up,” Bikker spat. “Come, now. I trained you to put up a better fight than this.”

It was all Croy could do to keep his eyes open.

“Damn you, a good stiff breeze could kill you right now,” Bikker insisted. His voice was not so hard as his words. “Croy, you don’t have a chance. I could have cut you down a dozen times just now. Don’t you want to live? Don’t you want to win?”

Somehow Croy managed to find a little breath, which he used for forming words. “I’ve already won, Bikker. I kept my faith. I kept to my beliefs. You can slay me now, certainly. Doing so won’t make you more of a man.”

“And letting you live will?” Bikker snarled.

“No. There’s nothing you can do to regain your honor. I understand that now. I had hoped to heal the wound on your soul. But it’s too late.”

Bikker growled then, or perhaps he shouted. It was an inchoate, wordless noise that came out of him as he clawed at the air with his free hand. He stamped his foot in rage. And then, little by little, he regained his composure. He came back to Croy and stood over him and looked down on him with something approaching calm.

“Draw Ghostcutter. Do me the honor of dying on your feet. Come!” Bikker seized Croy roughly under the armpits and hauled him upright. He held Croy there until the knight had his feet underneath him. He could stand, if he braced himself perfectly. But he couldn’t lift his arms. The mere effort of standing took all his wind.

“This is folly,” Bikker said. “You should learn from it, Croy. Sir Croy. You need to be woken up from your dreams of nobility and honor. Did I not teach you that even a mighty lord dies the same way as a humble villein? Apparently you weren’t paying attention that day. A shame-if I kill you now you’ll never learn. You’ll go and sit by the Lady’s side still thinking that heroes bleed a different color than the rest of us.”

“I kept my faith,” Croy whispered. “I lived that dream. I do not fear death.”

A mischievous light crept into Bikker’s eyes. “Interesting. Because it absolutely terrifies me. That’s why I trained so hard, learned to be so strong. Because I knew that the only thing standing between me and the pit is my right arm and whatever iron I hold. But perhaps-perhaps there is something more to life.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps,” Bikker went on, “it’s all true. All those pathetic slogans and vows of sacrifice you made, perhaps they mean something after all. Shall we see?”

“What do you mean?”

Bikker leaned very close until his face was only inches from Croy’s. “Let’s perform an experiment, like Hazoth in his laboratory. You’ll be my test subject. I’ll give you a simple choice and we’ll see how much you believe your own fancies. Hmm?”

Croy was too tired to reply.

“I’ll make you a promise. You can go free, and I won’t chase you. After all, killing a weakling like you isn’t going to be any fun. I’ll let you live the rest of your life unmolested. All you have to do is turn around and walk away from me, without another word.”

Croy frowned. This seemed unlikely.

“There is one proviso, however,” Bikker said. “You must leave Ghostcutter here.”

He looked very satisfied with himself for having devised this bargain. Croy’s lips drew back from his teeth and he snarled.

“ ‘My sword is my soul,’ ” he quoted. “You taught me that.”

“Exactly,” Bikker said. “So choose. Give up your soul, or forfeit your life.”

He said no more.

Croy shook his head, disbelieving. Bikker was an Ancient Blade, same as himself. How could he make such an infernal demand? It was counter to everything Croy had ever believed, everything he’d ever learned. A Blade died with his sword in his hand, or only after passing it on to someone who could make better use of it in the endless war against demonkind. That was the law of their existence. The most important rule of their order.

But of course, that was the point. Croy had called Bikker a faithless coward. That oath only meant something if Croy could prove he, himself, was otherwise. If he accepted the bargain, he would make his insult meaningless. But he would live.

Croy could never accept such a fate. Except If he died now, he would never see Cythera again. She and her mother would remain in bondage under Hazoth’s rule, forever. If he surrendered now, there would be another chance. Someday. Another possibility of rescue.

Croy made his choice. He lifted an arm that felt like a bar of lead and placed his hand around Ghostcutter’s hilt. Inch by inch he began to draw it from its scabbard.

The demon howled in agony, and Malden had to hang on to the door frame not to be knocked down. It was a hideous thing to look upon, but he could only imagine its pain. It-Malden could not bring himself to think of the thing as a “he”-must have experienced every instant of its new life as an eternity of suffering.