David Chandler - Den of thieves

But it was real. The curses Hazoth had avoided so long, the inimical magics cast on him by the demons of the pit in revenge for all he’d done to them, were getting through. Instead of being deposited on Cythera’s skin as painted flowers, they were appearing on his own skin as blossoms of blood and corruption.

“Damn that woman,” Hazoth said, his voice thick with phlegm. He shook himself and spoke a few words in some ancient language. Instantly, the sores on his face stopped weeping and closed again, until his countenance was as unblemished as before. “She’s weak, though. Too weak to resist. I’ll find her and prison her again.”

“No, I don’t think you will,” Cythera said.

Then she grabbed him by the arms and mashed her lips against his cheek in a brutal kiss. “Farewell, Father.”

Hazoth’s eyes went wide. Green sparks lit up his hair and his chest.

On Cythera’s left hand an oleander flower curled up and withered. A vine retracted around her wrist, shrinking back on itself.

“Malden,” Cythera said, quite calmly, “you should go now.”

The thief scrambled to his feet and ran. Behind him he heard Hazoth start to scream as the skin of his back split open and demonic arms reached out to grasp at him with shredding claws.

Every curse Cythera had stored on her skin for decades came loose at once, and they lashed out at Hazoth with interest. As the magician’s protective spells came apart, the demons he had exploited and enslaved sensed the release down in the pit, and sought every crack and crevice in the universe through which they could reach his side, intent on having their vengeance before the curses could undo Hazoth entirely. The people who lived on Ladypark Common closed their shutters and hid under their beds, but could not escape for the next three hours the screams of a dying sorcerer and the bellowing rage of the Bloodgod’s children, denied this prize for so long. They took their time destroying Hazoth. They savored it.

Witchly light filled the sky over the common, and the gruesome sounds of Hazoth’s demise made the air shiver. Malden did not look back over his shoulder, as much as he might have enjoyed watching Hazoth meet his sticky end. He had places to go yet tonight, things to achieve, or all could still be lost.

He could see his path easily in the weird illumination as he broke for the streets beyond the common, intending to lose himself in that maze and make good his escape.

He was not to be so lucky.

Ahead of him on the Cripplegate Road, a score of men in cloaks-of-eyes were waiting with weapons in hand. They moved quickly to cut off any avenue of escape, circling around him should he even think to return to the ruined villa. When Malden was completely surrounded, one of them came forward and held out an empty hand. “Give it over, thief,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?” Malden tried.

“We know you’ve got a dagger at your belt. Give it over or I’ll run you through and take it from you.”

Malden stared at the man with pure hatred. But there was nothing he could do. He drew the bodkin from his belt and handed it over. “I’ll want that back, now.”

With a chuckle, the watchman tossed the knife over the wall of the Ladypark.

Malden’s heart sank. The message was clear. He wasn’t going to need the knife anymore. He would not be given another chance to use it.

The rank of watchmen parted and someone came through the gap. Anselm Vry-with an expression of annoyance on his face.

“You really couldn’t do it with less fuss?” he asked.

Malden blinked in feigned incomprehension. “Do what, milord? I was only walking on the common, something I often do at night. I find it calms my mind. I’m not sure what’s going on over there,” he said, pointing at the green fire dancing on the other side of the common, “but I think you should definitely go investigate.”

Vry sneered at him. “What’s that on your belt, then?” he asked.

Malden patted his belt as if he couldn’t guess what the bailiff meant. Then he said, “Oh!” and unbuckled his belt to remove it. “You mean this.” The belt had been threaded through the golden crown he’d hidden under his cloak. He handed it over to Vry, who snatched it away from him.

The bailiff closed his eyes and held the crown up in both hands. His eyes snapped open for a moment and he stared at Malden, but then looked away and nodded. “Yes, of course, milord,” he said, as if talking to the crown, not to Malden. “You,” he said, to one of his watchmen. “The bag.” A velvet sack was brought forth and the crown placed carefully inside. “Very good, thief,” Vry said.

Malden bowed low. “So, may I inquire if there is a reward? I prefer it in gold, but will take silver if I must.”

“I’ll count it out in steel,” Vry said with a short, nasty laugh. “You-kill him. Then form a detail and carry his body to the Skrait. Make sure you weigh it down so no one ever finds it.”

A watchman with a halberd came lunging forward, but Malden had expected this and was already moving. He scurried up the wall of the Ladypark and dropped into a stand of bushes on the far side. There, he lay still and held his breath.

A half dozen faces appeared over the top of the wall, including Vry’s. They peered into the darkness for a long minute before withdrawing.

“It makes no difference. Let panthers and wolves fight over him now,” Vry said. “If he lives through the night, we’ll just find him in the morning.”

And with that they left.

Malden stayed still for a while longer, and then, when he was sure no one was watching, he got up and started looking for his bodkin.

“Lay easy,” Cythera said. She held Croy’s hand tight. His other hand still clutched the hilt of Ghostcutter. He looked at the blade and saw a bad notch in its silver edge, a wound it had taken when it blocked Acidtongue’s attack. He wondered if a dwarf could repair that damage, or if he should leave it there forever, in memory of Bikker.

“It’s over,” Cythera said again. “Hazoth is dead.”

“Hazoth?” Croy said, confused. “No, it’s Bikker, that’s-that’s Bikker there. I killed him. It had to be done. In the end I think maybe I was getting through to him, but-but it had to be done.” He struggled to sit up, and she pushed him back to the grass. He could not resist her hands.

Her hands! She had touched him, and not been very gentle about it. But that could only mean one thing. He looked to her with wild eyes. Her face was… was unpainted. The curses that had ornamented her skin were gone. All of them.

She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her skin was clear and fair, her eyes dark pools of calm and wisdom. Her slender arms were unadorned by so much as a painted leaf.

She was free.

“Over there,” she said, and pointed at a pillar of what looked like charred wood standing in the grass a dozen feet away. As Croy watched, it collapsed in on itself, like a log burned down to charcoal and ashes. “That’s all that’s left of my father.”

“What of your mother?” Croy asked.

“I am here as well, but in far better condition.” Coruth was suddenly standing at Croy’s feet, looking down on him.

She was exactly the way he remembered her. Wild and unkempt hair the color of new-forged iron. A nose as thin and sharp as a halberd blade, and eyes that saw everything. She wore no pleasant countenance, but for that she could hardly be blamed. She’d spent the last ten years imprisoned in a magic circle. Of late she’d been a tree. Now she wore a simple black robe and had one arm in a makeshift sling, but he knew that if the kings and queens of the world could see her, they would bow their heads in respect. There was an aura around Coruth that anyone could sense, an aura of power.