Кейт Новак - Azure Bonds

The trail ended in a pool of blood at the base of the statue, as if the prisoner had been left there for a moment. Olive made a “tch” sound. Why didn’t they tell the world there was a secret passage here somewhere? she scoffed.

Footsteps and voices approached from the dining room. Olive ducked behind the statue of the succubus.

“—unfair. That’s all I’m saying,” the first protested.

“Unfair doesn’t mean a thing to Her Ladyship,” the second voice argued. “We don’t have the seniority, we don’t have the clout. The rest get to play clerics and gods in a few hours. We don’t rate. So what?” Here the speaker’s words became incoherent as his mouth was occupied with chewing and swallowing, “—prefer raiding Her Ladyship’s larder to standing outside in the cold and damp. What?”

“Something by the dungeon door. Watch.”

Olive’s intestines cramped uncomfortably. Of all the stupid things—I’ve chosen the exact spot they’re heading for!

A soft footstep then a second crept closer to the alcove. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Olive would have giggled at the picture of a burly human trying to creep like a halfling across the floor. She didn’t even need to guess how close he was, she could feel the floorboards shift slightly under his weight. Pressing her back against the wall, she thrust against the statue’s pedestal with her feet.

The top-heavy statue rocked, then toppled from its pedestal. The crash of stone against stone blended with the sickening thunk of flesh and bone being crushed by a great weight, as the succubus claimed the life of the first Fire Knife. The stonework ran with fresh blood.

The other Fire Knife, a grossly overweight human with a stubby short sword in one hand and half of a melon in the other, had been standing ten feet away when his partner had met his demise. His eyes were wide with shock, but he approached the pedestal. Olive slipped out of the alcove to face her attacker.

“Murr,” muttered the Fire Knife. Whether this was the name of some god or his late companion, Olive did not know. “Ya just a girl. C’mon, kid, I’ll make it fast. We’ll just lock ya up until …”

The halfling didn’t wait to find out how long she’d be locked up. She dropped to one knee, grabbed a piece of the broken statue, and threw it. Clunked square in the forehead with a succubus breast, the assassin rocked back on his heels. Olive grabbed the sword from his dead partner’s hand and charged.

The Fire Knife dropped the melon and swung his blade downward. Olive dove to the right, and the steel blade sparked off the stonework, sending a ringing peal of doom through the hall and up the stairs. The assassin whirled and slashed in a cross-cut. Olive dipped her head slightly, and the blade swiped over her. The man’s reflexes were trained in battling opponents his own size.

Olive slipped inside his guard and thrust his partner’s short sword upward in the all-too-ample space between his leather jerkin and his belt. The blade sank deep into the flesh. Blood welled from the wound. The Fire Knife stepped backward, but Olive moved with him like a bulldog, wriggling and twisting the sword.

The assassin grabbed at her hair with his left hand, but before he could take advantage of his grip, he gurgled and collapsed on top of his enemy. It was several moments before Olive could get any air into her lungs and wriggle out from beneath her vanquished foe.

Blood stained the entire length of her gown.

“Like falling off a log,” she muttered to herself. “Nothing to it. Done it lots of times.” She tried to pant more quietly, listening for others. If anyone else was still in the house, they would have heard the fight.

There was no other sound but her labored breathing.

She returned to the pedestal and began exploring its carved edges for a catch to open the secret door. Badly rattled, her fingers ran over the surface for almost three minutes before she managed to press just the right bit of fluting. The wall in the back of the alcove slid open, revealing a spiral stairway leading down.

Stealing a torch from a wall sconce and the obese assassin’s short sword, the bard pattered down the steps. The air grew chill and damp as she descended. At the bottom, a passage was cut deeply into the bedrock. The passage was lighted by a magical glow issuing from statues of demons mounted on the walls—magical light that did not flicker, but shone in steady red beams from the red glass eyes and in white fans from the tops of their heads. Along the right side of the passage were three archways blocked by cage bars. The passage continued on, lit by a pearl-like string of red and white lights.

Beyond the first archway lay an empty cell, clean but for a dark red smear streaking the back wall. The second cell caged a mass of rotting cloaks and blankets. Akabar hung in the third cell, the chains of his manacles attached to a hook in the ceiling. The Turmishman’s toes dangled three inches from the floor. The assassins had left him in the cold and damp with nothing but a sheet wrapped around his waist. His face was puffy and discolored. Blood trickled from his mouth and welled in the troughs of four-fingered scratches across his right cheek and chest. Ruskettle could not remember Cassana’s nails being particularly long. Then she recalled the sharpened finger bones of Zrie Prakis, and shuddered.

“Akabar,” she hissed, wondering if there were any other Fire Knives left behind to guard the prisoners. She searched the bars for a door or a lock, but they ran from ceiling to floor without a break.

“Akabar!” she said louder.

In the cell next door the mound of furs and cloaks stirred. Olive started and watched the pile closely. A man’s head poked out. His hair and beard were shaggy and black, with splotches of gray and white. His eyes were blue and rheumy. His face was lined with cracks of old age and cold. Cocking his head he chirped, “Hullo.”

Olive cast a glance back at Akabar, but the mage had not moved. “Uh, greetings. You must be the crafter. Are we alone here?” she whispered.

“No,” the crafter said, shaking loose the furs and cloaks. He rose slowly to his feet, and his legs wobbled as if he’d been bedridden for a long time. He wore a tattered tabard that must have once been purple and green, but was now faded to gray and yellow. “There’s a new prisoner next door,” he replied, pointing toward Akabar’s cell.

“I mean, are there any guards?”

“Let me check. GUARDS!”

Olive toppled backward in shock. Scrambling to her feet, she sought desperately for a bolt hole. She could run farther down the corridor or back up it. The crafter’s cry echoed back to her from both directions, but the sound of human feet did not follow it.

“Sorry. No guards. I think they’re away. That way.” The graying crafter pointed farther down the passage.

Prakis warned you the fellow was mad, Olive-girl, she berated herself. Obviously, he wasn’t joking.

“Where are the locks?” she demanded.

The crafter’s eyes became sharp points. “There are no locks here.”

“How did they put you in there?”

“Through the bars.”

Olive cursed. She didn’t have time to play riddles with crazy people. “Must you be so cryptic?”

“As long as I’m here, yes. Otherwise, I’d shed light on the subject for you.”

Olive considered continuing down the passage to search for Cassana’s hoard and then leave when she’d found enough treasure to keep her in flight for a year. But the hoard might be similarly barred, and who knew how many Fire Knives were stationed to guard the end of the tunnel?

The light from her torch, dropped when the madman had bellowed, fizzled out and died. Only the magic light of the demon statues illuminated the corridor now. Light. Shed some light on the subject, she thought. What was the subject? The bars. Of course!