Лорел Гамильтон - Strange Candy

They paced the tower three times before the sword could make the door visible to her. It looked ordinary enough—just a brown wooden door with metal studding. It was man height.

“Can you see the door now, Milon?”

“I see nothing but blackness.”

Sidra reached her hand out toward him, and he moved to take it. Leech fought her left-handed grip and slashed at the man. Sidra jerked the sword sharply, “Behave, Leech.”

“I hunger. You did not feed me.”

“You did not ask.”

It pouted, “I’m asking now.” By the rules she could have refused it, for it had done its task. But keeping the sword happy assured that she could wield it and live; doing both was not always easy. An unhappy blood blade was an untrustworthy blood blade. She held the blade against her left forearm and let it slice its own way into the skin. It was a mere nick of crimson. She offered her hand once more to Milon.

A drop of sweat beaded at Milon’s hairline, and he took her hand tentatively, as far from the sword as possible. “I can see the door.” He released her hand and backed away from the sword once more.

Sidra knelt before the door, but before she could touch the lock, she noticed that the door moved. It wasn’t much of a movement, just a twitch like a horsehide when a fly settles on it. She asked the sword, “What is it?”

“It is an ancient enchantment not much used now.”

“What is the quickest and quietest way to win past it? The wizard will notice us setting his door on fire.”

“True, but would you rather chop through that much meat? Even I cannot kill it, only damage it. Oh, it would be a glorious outpouring of Mood. But it would not be quick.” It sounded disappointed.

Sidra hated to use the day’s only fireball so early on.

She hoped she would not need it later. She faced the door and pointed the sword’s tip toward it. A fireball the size of her fist shot from it. It expanded in a whirling dance of heat. The wildfire exploded against the door. A high keening wail sounded. When the fire died away, the door was a blackened hull encircling the doorway. The ruined door was screaming.

The sword said, “Such work deserves a hearty meal.”

Sidra did not argue but let the blade slice over her left wrist. The vein was slashed and blood welled dark and eager over the hungry blade. It stayed near, lapping at the wound until it closed.

“Follow close, Milon, but be wary. Not everything in a demon-made tower will be civilized enough to know you for a bard.”

He nodded. “I have followed you into many adventures. I would not miss this one out of fear.”

She said, “Then come, my brave bard, but watch your back.”

She stepped over the blackened door rim of the door creature. It whimpered as she and the sword passed through it. They stood in a circular chamber made of the same black rock. But a staircase made of good gray stone curved downward in the center of the room.

“Light the lantern here, Milon, and carry it high.”

The lantern’s flickering yellow light soon danced in the small room.

Sidra led the way and tripped the first trap. Three darts clanged against her shield and fell to the steps. She knelt carefully, shield up and alert. The dart’s tips were blackened with a thick tarry substance. She did not touch it.

She spoke for Milon’s benefit. “Poisoned. Don’t touch anything unless you have to. Watch where you step.”

Sidra found the next trap and tripped it with the sword. A spear shot out and buried itself into the stone of the far wall. It would have taken her through the chest. And still the stone stairs wound deeper into the earth. There was nothing for a long time save the lantern’s golden shadows and their footsteps echoing on the stairs. Then the stairs ended at a small landing in front of a door. But there was one last trap. And Sidra was not at all sure she could trip it without being harmed.

She studied it for a time, directing Milon to point the lantern here and there. There were six separate pressure points on the stairs that she had found. They were set in a pattern that would make it difficult if not impossible to walk the last five steps. They could jump, but Sidra didn’t trust the landing either. And they were too far away for her to find traps on it yet.

She could not pass the stairs, but the sword could. If it would do it. Moving without human aid was something Leech did not prefer to do. Only twice before had she asked it to and each time the blood price had been high.

“Leech, I want you to set off the traps on the stairs and then come gently back to my hand.”

“Payment,” it whispered.

“Blood, as always.”

“Fresh blood,” it asked.

She offered the blade her naked arm, but it remained unmoving against her skin. “What do you want, Leech?”

“Fresh blood.”

“I’m offering it to you.”

“Fresher blood, new blood.”

Milon said, “Oh, no, no.”

Sidra said, “I agree. You are my weapon. You taste my blood, no one else’s.”

“When we kill, I taste blood.”

“I will not sacrifice Milon to feed you.”

She could almost feel it thinking, weighing its options. “A taste, a fresh taste, just a nick, just a bite.” Milon said, “No, absolutely not. That steel monster is not going to taste my blood.”

Sidra sighed and said, “Then I will attempt to remove the traps.”

He gripped her arm. “You said you couldn’t do it.”

“I said that I didn’t see how I could do it without getting killed.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“I can’t let you be killed.”

She just looked at him, waiting for him to make up his mind.

He shuddered and held out his arm. She unlaced the sleeve and pushed it back to bare the pale skin. The sword chuckled. “Just a taste, just a bite, just a nibble.” She held the sword firmly two-handed, for she didn’t trust it, and placed it against Milon’s arm. The sword bit deep and quick like a serpent’s strike. Milon cried out, and opened his eyes to stare in horror as the blade lapped up his blood. The wound quickly closed and the sword sighed, “New blood, fresh, good, yum.”

Sidra felt that the last was added for Milon’s benefit. Milon took it very seriously. He yanked down his sleeve and said, “Yum or not, that is the last of my blood you ever get, you bloodsucking toothpick.”

The sword laughed.

Sidra pulled Milon back up the stairs and then released the blade. It settled onto the first pressure point. A rain of poisoned darts filled the hall like black snow.

Leech floated back to her, obediently. “I have cleared the way, O master.” Sidra ignored the sarcasm and led Milon to the landing. It was not trapped. But the door was.

The poisoned darts were soon removed. And the well-oiled lock clicked under her pick. The door opened into a short straight hallway. Doors dotted the walls in geometric lines to right and lef t. Torches were set at regular intervals along the walls. In the still air there was the sound of chanting.

Milon started to blow out the lantern, but Sidra stopped him. She spoke close to his ear so the sound wouldn’t carry. “We may need light if we have to leave quickly.”

The sword started to hum in time to the chanting and she hushed it.

Sidra stared at the floor and said, “Place your feet exactly where I place mine.”

He nodded to show he had understood and then concentrated on following her over a five-foot-wide area of floor. She let out a breath of air as if she had been holding it. He relaxed as well, stepping back just a half step. The floor fell out from under him and he was tumbling backward helplessly. Sidra caught his arm, but his weight pulled them both downward. He was left dangling over a pit, and she on her stomach, holding him by one arm. The torches glimmered off silvered spikes set into the floor of the pit.