David Chandler - Den of thieves

Half the house was in ruins now, torn apart by the beast as it sought out his scent. It must be horribly confused, he thought, because it smelled him everywhere-everywhere Kemper had left one of his cards.

Cythera had told him that the demon hunted by smell alone, and that it could follow its prey’s scent through any obstacle or diversion. It made him think of someone else who worked miracles with his nose-Kemper, the card sharp, whose cards were not visibly marked but who knew the stink of every one of them so well that when he dealt them, they might as well have been faceup.

With all that in mind, for the past three days Malden had carried those cards inside his tunic, through all manner of exertions. He had rubbed them on his armpits and his groin, on the sweaty back of his neck, on any part of his body that might imbue them with his smell. He had not lacked for exudation-fear made him sweat copiously.

When he gave them back to Kemper, the card sharp was most displeased. Malden had ruined them for gaming by changing the invisible markings Kemper knew so well. But for the purposes of this scheme, the card sharp had been willing to make the sacrifice. While Malden worked his way into the sanctum, Kemper had moved around the house as only an intangible man could, walking through walls and locked doors, keeping out of sight, and placing his cards here and there, one under a fine mahogany dressing table, one in a closet full of crockery and plates.

The cards served the purpose of slowing the demon down. It had to investigate each card, and its method of investigation was to destroy whatever it smelled. The time it took the demon to smash Hazoth’s finest furniture was all the time Malden needed to get a head start on it and keep clear of its jaws.

Hopefully, the cards would serve another purpose.

Malden had known it would be impossible to steal the crown back without alerting Hazoth to his presence. The man was a sorcerer, after all, and this was his own house. After hundreds of years in it he must know its every nook and cranny better than Kemper knew his cards. So Malden’s scheme to retake the crown had been constructed, by necessity, around the knowledge that eventually he would have to face the demon.

Malden turned in a doorway and looked down a long hall lit only by a single cresset. Halfway down the hall the demon roared as it pulverized a linen press, searching destructively for the card Kemper must have hidden at its bottom. Shreds of cloth and fibers of the best linen floated in the air as the demon beat and flailed at the walls with its mismatched legs.

Malden stepped through the door and slammed it behind him. He was no longer worried about making any noise. Especially when the house had begun to creak and moan all around him. He could hear its columns and its boards shifting on foundations that had stood for as long as there was a city around it. The wood was strained by the damage the demon did to its walls. Malden pricked up his ears as he heard a series of popping noises like thunder cracks. Nails giving way above his head, one after the other, bursting from the beams and rafters they held together.

It was time to flee, definitely. Behind him the demon raged and threw itself at the door he’d closed, desperate to get at him, needing to devour him so it could return to its egg and resume its long sleep. The wall around the door shook and split, as a wide crack opened in the plaster and went racing toward the ceiling.

Get out now, Malden thought, and raced toward a solarium at the far end of the house. A door there stood between him and the garden. It was locked, and far too sturdy to knock down with his shoulder. He cursed as he reached for his bodkin and the tools woven into its grip. He needn’t have bothered, though. Before he could get his first pick free, the entire house leaned over to one side, the walls and ceiling seeming to careen right toward where he stood. The door before him, warped out of its frame, went spinning off into the night.

Behind him the demon crashed into the solarium. Its skull heads circled around in the air, its red nostrils pulsing. Malden ran through where the door had been and out into cool night air, the demon hard on his heels. It got one of its skull heads and two of its legs through the doorway before the second and third floors of the house collapsed all at once on its back.

The noise was beyond imagining, like the earth opening wide to suck the entire city down into the pit. Debris was everywhere, tumbling and arcing through the air, entire rafter beams dancing end over end across the Ladypark Common. A rolling cloud of plaster dust hit Malden like a tidal wave and he was knocked down by the shock wave. A piece of glass jagged as a knife blade cut across his forehead, and blood made red tracks through the dust that covered his face.

Choking and heaving for breath, he got back to his feet and surveyed the destruction. It looked like a storm had loosed every lightning bolt in its quiver at the house, all at once. The villa had become a chaotic hell of rubble and wreckage, with barely two boards still standing attached to one another. In the mess, a few small fires burned, while dozens of small animals, freed from their cages in the ruin, burst into flight or went howling away on long legs or only crawled or slithered out of the cataclysm.

Malden could hardly believe his eyes. This had been his plan all along, of course, but even so-the damage was immeasurable. The destruction utterly complete.

He started to dust himself off, but stopped when he saw something moving inside the debris. A massive board was heaved clear and then a snowdrift of plaster went sliding into a cavity in the heap. A pink, raw arm reached up from inside and hauled at a crossbeam that was still mostly intact. Little by little the demon pulled itself clear of the remains of the house. Its skull heads lifted clear of the wreckage and its mouth began to howl once more.

“Bloodgod take my eyes,” Malden cursed.

The demon had survived.

A minute earlier, outside:

Bikker took a step toward Croy’s left, but did not advance.

Croy stood where he was. Ghostcutter’s point tracked Bikker as he moved. Croy had lived with the sword so long it took no effort at all to keep it pointed at the bearded swordsman.

This would all be over in a moment.

One strike-and Acidtongue would carve Croy like a chicken. The vitriol on its blade would sear through his flesh and he would be undone.

One thrust-and Ghostcutter would drive through Bikker’s shirt of chain, pierce his vitals, and leave him gasping in his own blood. Assuming Croy had enough strength left to complete the stroke.

“Are you ready?” Bikker asked.

“There is no such thing as readiness,” Croy said. “One fights, and lives, or one prepares, and one dies. You taught me that.”

“Do you regret it has come to this?” Bikker asked.

“Yes.”

Bikker sighed. “As do I, to be honest. Shall we count to three, and then strike?”

“One,” Croy said.

“Two,” Bikker responded.

“Three,” they said together.

Acidtongue whirled through the air, coming down hard and fast from Croy’s left, his weak side. Croy tried to lean out of the way but knew he wouldn’t be fast enough. Ghostcutter shifted in his hand and came upward to parry. The two blades met with an awful grinding, sizzling noise. Acid bit into Ghostcutter’s silver edge and notched the iron underneath. Bikker pushed forward suddenly and Croy went sprawling, his left hand out to catch him as he fell.

Not enough, not nearly enough-Croy had wasted his one cut-it was the end-in a moment Bikker would remise, following through on the stroke Croy had parried, bringing the blow home, and — Ghostcutter broke free of the engagement, ringing clear of Acidtongue. The acid had made the blades slick and unlocked them. Croy turned at the waist as he fell, trying to catch himself before he fell on his back, and Ghostcutter whistled through the air in a tight arc. Croy used every bit of control he had over the weapon and brought it low and inside Bikker’s guard. Busy gaining leverage for his remise, Bikker had his arms up, and that left his side unprotected.