David Chandler - Den of thieves

Ghostcutter was a heavy blade. Its own momentum sliced through the chain-mail shirt over Bikker’s hip and deep into the flesh beneath. It didn’t stop until it had sliced halfway through Bikker’s spine.

Bikker gasped and took a step backward, and Ghostcutter came free of his midsection as easily as it was pulled from its own scabbard.

“Sadu take you,” Bikker shouted, and lifted Acidtongue again for another stroke. He lunged forward, but before he was halfway to Croy he stumbled and blood came vomiting out of his mouth.

Acidtongue dropped to the grass. It was dry by the time it landed-it secreted vitriol only when held by a strong arm. Bikker dropped to his knees beside it and then fell face forward into the earth.

Croy crawled toward his old teacher and rolled the man over on his back. Bikker’s face was congested with blood and his eyes weren’t focusing. His mouth moved but the words that came out were inaudible whispers. Croy bent his ear over Bikker’s lips to hear what he said.

“When you find an heir for my sword,” Bikker told him, his voice no louder than the breeze that ruffled the grass, “teach him that stroke. It’s a good one.”

Croy closed his friend’s eyelids, and wept.

He was not given time to grieve, however.

The grass was blown back by a flash of light more bright than the sun at midday. Hazoth and Cythera were suddenly standing over him. He looked up into her eyes but didn’t like what he saw there.

She might have spoken-but just then, behind Croy, the villa fell in on itself with a mammoth crash.

“Croy! Croy!” Malden called, racing around the side of the house where the debris was not so thick. He jumped onto a fallen rafter beam and leapt into a drift of plaster dust that billowed up around him like a cloud. He managed to sidestep a pile of broken glass but still came down hard on a plank of wood that shifted under him and sent him sprawling forward.

Behind him the demon’s skull heads bit at the air. It was almost upon him.

“Croy! Kill it!” he screamed as he came around to the front of the house, where the rose window had fallen in a million shards of colored glass.

He took in the scene in an instant, though he liked little of it. Bikker looked dead, which was a good thing, and Croy was still holding his sword. The knight was sitting down in the grass, however, with his knees up to his chest, and he looked as pale as a sheet. Had the two fools killed each other?

Cythera and Hazoth were there, too. Both of them were staring at the pile of rubble that had been their home. They seemed too paralyzed by surprise to react.

“Demon!” Malden shouted, his feet slapping against the grass. “Croy!”

He raced up to the knight and then jumped over Croy’s head. The demon was right behind him, snatching at his heels with one clawed foot.

Ghostcutter was pointed at the sky, suddenly. Croy did not rise, or call out a threat, or even shift from where he sat, but his sword pointed upward. The demon couldn’t see it, having no eyes, and as the blade bit into its belly, at first it seemed not even to notice.

Then the cold iron blade pierced it through, and the point came out through the demon’s back. It fell on Croy hard enough to crush any man, and scratched at the ground with every one of its mismatched legs, but it couldn’t seem to get free.

Cythera shouted for Croy, but the knight was completely covered by the demon’s body. If he heard her, he could make no reply.

“Malden, he was already gravely wounded-if we don’t get him out of there soon he’ll smother,” she said, beseeching the thief.

Malden started to shrug. What could he do? His bodkin was useless against the thing. He was no Ancient Blade to fight a demon. But then He saw Acidtongue on the ground next to Bikker’s body. Like Ghostcutter, it was made for fighting demons. Malden grabbed it and found that he could barely lift it. He’d never used a sword in his life and realized instantly that it wasn’t just a matter of swinging it around like a stick.

But then drops of vitriol appeared along the blade’s length like sweat. Grabbing the hilt with both hands, Malden rushed toward the demon, holding the sword straight out from his body. He jabbed it into the demon’s back and leaned on the pommel until it sank deep into the demon’s vitals.

The skull heads reared up and screamed at the stars as the demon redoubled its thrashing. Malden let go of the sword’s hilt then and staggered back, trying to get clear of its flailing legs.

Eventually it died, and lay still. Its flesh fumed and liquefied until its bones stuck up through its raw musculature. Its claws curled and withered like paper in a fire. Soon it was no more than wisps of foul-smelling smoke and a pool of vile liquid. Underneath its remains, Croy struggled to pull Ghostcutter free of the infernal thing’s rib cage.

Malden stared at the beast in utter incomprehension. He couldn’t believe what he had just done. He had killed a demon. He-the puny thief, who had never even cut a human being before-had killed. Of course, it had been pinned and immobile, and- But he had killed it Malden started to whoop in joy. But then an invisible hand grasped his heart and began to squeeze.

“My son… my house,” Hazoth said. “You destroyed my house.”

Malden dropped to the ground, unable to move a muscle. The sorcerer leaned over him.

“I was going to allow you a quick death, rodent,” the sorcerer said. “No more.”

Malden rolled on the ground, his body coming to pieces from the inside out. Pain gripped him like iron tongs as Hazoth twisted one hand in the air, and his guts tied themselves in knots. He could barely see anything-his vision had turned the bright red of arterial blood.

Then it cleared, just enough for him to look up into Hazoth’s face. “I want you to see me while you suffer,” the sorcerer told him. “I want you to feel everything. The pain I’m about to inflict on you would normally drive a rodent unconscious. It might even kill one outright. Your primitive brain would rather die than live through this agony. But I won’t let it. You are going to suffer for what you’ve done to me. And I know more than anyone about what suffering means.”

Malden gasped for breath, but every ounce of air he inhaled felt like he was swallowing knives. His arms curled around his chest, constricted by pain, but still he could see the magician staring down into his eyes.

So he could see it very clearly when a red blotch appeared on Hazoth’s cheek and burst through the skin as an ugly boil.

It was such a surprise he almost forgot the pain. Almost.

“Your spells are… slipping,” he wheezed.

“You know nothing of magic. Save your breath for the screams you are about to utter,” Hazoth told him.

Yet even as the wizard spoke, pimples erupted near his hairline. Hazoth reached up to feel the bumpy skin there and something miraculous happened.

The expression on his face changed. He started to show real fear. He even cried out as one of his eyes grew thick with cataracts.

On the ground, Malden wanted to laugh. He wanted to crow for joy. The pain he’d felt disappeared as Hazoth reared back and clutched at his ear, which had begun to drip blood. “What is this?” Hazoth demanded. He turned to stare at Cythera.

“The link between us is fading, Father,” she said. The vines and flowers on her face writhed and bloomed wildly. “He did it. The thief did it-Coruth must be free. When the house came down it must have broken your magic circle. She has undone the connection she once made between you and I.” Cythera looked like she could hardly believe it herself. As if she didn’t dare believe what was happening.