Den of Thieves (11 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

B
ile rushed up Malden's throat and his head swam. The breath exploded out of him and he nearly let go of his bodkin. The demon's arm throbbed around his midsection and constricted his guts until he thought for sure he would be pinched in half.

Then it picked him up off the floor and slammed him against the ceiling of the tower room. His vision went black for a moment and when he came to his ears were ringing like bells.

It had grown still larger, until it nearly filled the room. Its myriad arms waved limply in the air and slapped against the stone walls. One of its arms still held the crown, gripped carefully in a thin twist of flesh. It held the thing well clear of Malden's reach, even if he'd had the presence of mind to make a grab for it.

Malden stabbed wildly around him with the bodkin, but even when his knife struck true it merely sank into the pulpy flesh, then came out again without leaving so much as a mark on the creature's arms. The thing was sickeningly fluid, barely solid enough to keep a form, it seemed. Yet where it held him, its muscles were like ropes of steel. The thing was . . . unnatural. Unworldly.

Now Malden understood why the room was guarded by a statue of the Bloodgod. This was no natural beast. It must be a very demon, loosed from out of Sadu's pit of souls. It did not belong in the world of light and air. Whatever sorcerer had summoned it from its natural environment must have understood that. He or she must have known that it would grow, and continue to grow, when exposed to air. They had placed it in the crystal bowl of water to keep its size small. If he could submerge it again in water, perhaps it would shrink once more and—

It thrust him against the walls again and again, trying to batter him to death. For a while he could not think or even see clearly as he was lashed against the flags and banners that lined the walls of the tower room. Pennons and standards crashed to the floor as his body knocked them free of their pegs. His left shoulder struck the stone wall hard and went instantly numb, and he could barely feel his legs.

Water—there must be some water—somewhere—

He could hardly think straight. He could hardly think at all. There had been water in the bowl, but it soaked into the sand that covered the floor. That must be what the sand was there for. The river was nearby, if he could somehow trick the beast into climbing over the wall and falling into the canyon beyond—but how he would manage that when he could not free himself from its grip was past his imagining.

Water! He must have it! He—

He had no water. But he had wine. The flask at his belt was still half full. Would it have the same effect on the creature? He could not be sure.

The beast had grown still larger. It filled the tower room entire now, and was crushing him against the walls with its bulk. As it waved its arms around, it smashed the stones to powder—its arms were as thick around as tree trunks now. Would it keep growing, would it grow so large it burst the walls of the tower? Would that be enough to kill it, when the upper stories of the tower collapsed upon it?

Malden doubted it. But he was certain of one thing—he, himself, would never survive such a collapse.

There was no more time for thinking. He reached around the tentacle at his waist and grabbed the flask of wine. It was leather sewn together with gut, the seams worked with wax to make them waterproof. It sloshed as he lifted it up to see it. When he bought the thing, he'd chosen shrewdly, picking a vessel that wouldn't leak, that would stand up to rough treatment. Now he cursed himself that he hadn't just bought some cheap skin he could burst with one hand. The damned flask was too sturdy. He brought his bodkin around and stabbed it. Wine squirted out of the hole he'd made and red drops ran down the back of his hand.

One drop fell onto the beast's skin. The arm that held him pulsed wildly and he was thrown hither and yon, but the grip around his waist eased a trifle. Yes! The wine had some effect on the thing. He held the flask toward the tentacle and squeezed it as hard as he could, spraying wine all over its pulpy flesh.

Suddenly, blood rushed down into his legs and they burned with new sensation. His guts relaxed inside his abdomen and he belched as his stomach nearly loosed its contents. He squeezed the flask again and he was free, flying through the air as if the demon had thrown him like a ball.

The wall of the tower came toward him very fast, and he nearly crashed into it head first. He threw his arms up in front of him and managed to catch the wall with his sore fingers and then cling there like a spider before he fell back into the demon's arms.

Below him the beast thrashed like a mad thing, bashing against the walls convulsively. Stone crumbled and shattered and pulverized. A wide crack opened in the wall and then a whole section of the tower's stonework fell away, letting in a rush of cold night air.

The tentacles snapped at Malden's ankles and back, trying to get a grip, but they were slow and he was able to avoid being grabbed up once again. The main problem he faced was that the beast had grown so large there was precious little room in the tower it didn't fill, little enough that Malden had to press himself against the wall to keep from being crushed by its sheer bulk.

More of the wall fell away. The tower above began to groan as its timbers shifted, no longer able to support the weight. The tower that stood for so many centuries, that seemed eternal, now lurched and swayed like a ship in a gale. In a moment the room would collapse and he would be crushed. He had escaped one gruesome fate only to befall another, it seemed. And yet—perhaps—

Malden looked down and saw that he was very close to the statue of Sadu that was the secret lock to this room. The creature had enough respect for its creator, it seemed, not to smash the idol or even brush it with its tentacles. Malden waited until the tentacles were as far from him as possible, then dropped to his feet next to the image. He wasted no time pushing down on the arm-lever that controlled the door.

The pivoting section of floor and wall began to turn, and Malden readied himself to dash through it as it revealed the moonlit hallway beyond. Yet when the wall had swiveled only a few degrees through its arc, with only a sliver of moonlight coming through from the other side, the motion stopped.

The cause was immediately apparent. The tentacled beast's mass was pressing against the wall, keeping it from swinging open. Malden pushed at the wall, trying to force it to open, trying to squeeze his shoulders through the small gap, but to no avail. “No!” he screamed at it. “Get back, you infernal bastard! Let me go!”

The beast made no response but to redouble its thrashing motion. Malden laid into it with his bodkin, stabbing and thrusting wildly at its ever-moving arms. It was no use, though, because the thing was
still
growing, still expanding to fill more and ever more of the available space—

—and then the tower began to rumble, as if it were being shaken to pieces. Rock dust sifted down from the ceiling and the stone walls began to give way.

Chapter Twenty-Three

A
great crashing noise stopped Croy in his tracks. “That came from the palace,” he whispered. “From the tower—did it not? And so soon after those two men were killed. Something's wrong here.”

Hilde grasped his hand and dragged him farther into the shadows beside the kitchens. “It's nothing to do with me or you. Come quickly. We can't let the guards see you here.”

Croy held his ground, though, as another thunderous sound issued from the tower. The edifice began to shake and a block of stone fell from its top to crack the flagstones below. Then a fissure appeared in the side of the tower, about halfway up. The men of the watch who were out in force in the courtyard all turned to look as one, and there was a cry of surprise and alarm that could be heard even over the ear-shattering klaxon.

“It's going to collapse,” he said, just before the tower's wall exploded outward, showering the courtyard with broken chunks of stone. The upper floors of the tower tottered over with a most horrible slowness, then all at once collapsed in a massive cloud of dust and debris. The watch were everywhere at once, shouting and calling for each other, for the guards, for anyone who was close enough to help.

“There might have been people in there,” Croy said, turning toward the lady-in-waiting. “Hilde, you go seek shelter in the—” He didn't bother to finish, as she was already gone. She hadn't stopped to let him save her, but instead ran for dear life. Well, that was probably wise. He hoped she would find safety, and quickly. She might be a little confused, but she was a good woman at heart and he wished her luck.

The moral qualities of ladies-in-waiting was suddenly less important to Croy, though, than the groaning rumble that shook the very mass of Castle Hill and threatened to knock him off his feet, as the tower collapsed further and massive stones went bouncing and rolling across the courtyard.

Was it an earthquake? He'd never heard of such a thing in the Free City. Perhaps some sorcerer had attacked the palace? But Hazoth was the only sorcerer in a hundred miles who had the power for such a thing, and this hardly seemed like his handiwork. Croy drew the smaller of his two swords and made to run for the tower, either to rescue anyone inside the ruin or to slay whoever had knocked the tower down, he wasn't exactly sure which. He got no more than two steps, however, before a hand wrapped in chain mail grabbed his baldric. It threw him off balance and his sword went flying.

He rolled across the flagstones and got his elbows under him, bending his knees so he could leap back to his feet. Then an all-too-familiar face loomed out of the shadows and put a boot on his chest. The big swordsman pressed down hard enough that Croy could barely breathe.

Bikker.

Croy could hardly believe his eyes. He'd known, certainly, that the two of them would meet again. It was destiny. But here? At this time? It seemed fantastic.

“What in the name of Sadu's flaming arse are you doing here?” Bikker asked.

Croy could only stare up at the massive warrior. “I might ask you the same.”

“I live here. This is my city,” Bikker snarled.

“I meant—”

“I find myself in no position to answer your questions, Croy. But I will have answers to mine. I say again, what are you doing here? You were banished from Ness, never to return. I remember it well, since I was the one tasked with riding you out of the city gates on a rail.”

Croy remembered that moment himself. The rail had been tied to the back of Bikker's horse at the time. He had been left bruised and abraded ten miles north of the city with nothing but his swords—even his clothes were ruined by the rough treatment.

“I returned for Cythera, of course,” Croy said. “Once I have guaranteed her safety and her freedom, and once I take care of a few other standing engagements, I'll leave in peace. You have my word.”

“Doubtful,” Bikker said. “Oh, don't look so shocked. I know you're telling the truth. I also know that by ‘standing engagements' you mean me. You mean my death. And since that's not likely to happen, well . . . Never mind. Tell me what you're doing here, tonight. Your presence is most inconvenient to my plans.”

In the courtyard something crashed to the ground with a thud that shook Croy's teeth in his skull. He tried to rise and see what had happened but Bikker just pressed him down again.

He decided the best way to recover his feet was to answer Bikker. “I came to get my swords back. The Burgrave took them from me when he sentenced me to death. I imagine you were there at my hanging—surely you wouldn't have missed that.”

“I had to leave early,” Bikker said. He wasn't looking at Croy, but at the ruins of the tower. “I hear it didn't end well.”

“Oh?” Croy asked.

“You got away. Croy, please do me a favor and keep reaching for the hilt of Ghostcutter. Please, please, try to draw your sword. It will give me the excuse I need to hack you to pieces right now.”

Croy opened his hands wide and stretched them out at his sides. He had known Bikker for a long time. He was quite certain the man was willing to stab him where he lay on the ground, to take his life without the slightest shred of honor or dignity. And yet . . . he hadn't so far. He had every opportunity but still let him live. Was it just because Bikker wanted information? Or was it possible there was something still alive in Bikker, some shred of the honor he'd cast off like a stained tunic?

“Surely Hazoth didn't send you here to kill me,” Croy said. “He could not have known I was here—unless he has been following my movements with a spell.”

Bikker snorted in derision. “The wizard? I doubt he even remembers your name. He has no interest in you one way or another. He
has
ordered me to be discreet when I'm out in the city. Which is enough to save your life, at least for tonight. Blind me, what is that thing?”

Croy turned his head to look as best he was able at the fresh ruins. He gasped at what he saw. It was as if a nest of gigantic blind asps or equally large worms had been crammed inside one room of the tower and now they were writhing and striking at the air. Yet by the way they moved in concert, he could tell it was a single beast with many arms. Some of its numerous appendages grabbed at the fallen rocks in the courtyard and threw them at the guards that rushed toward it. Other sinuous limbs pushed against what remained of the tower as it tried to drag its enormous bulk out into the night. It made no sound other than a wet slithering.

“Fiend from the pit, do you think?” Bikker asked, with professional interest.

“Or a sorcerous abomination, at the very least,” Croy confirmed. A thought occurred to him. Maybe he had a way of getting back on his feet. “Between Ghostcutter and Acidtongue, we'd stand a chance against it.”

“Just like old times, hmm?” Bikker asked. “Is that what you're thinking?” He pulled at his beard, the way he always did when he was unable to make a decision. Croy understood, despite himself. The old times had never seemed older. Yet the two of them took an oath once, an oath on their souls. Such things died hard.

“That, and that we could save a number of innocent lives,” Croy said.

“Bah,” Bikker said, but Croy could tell his heart wasn't fully in the disdain.

The guards and the men of the watch were already peppering the demon with arrows. The missiles seemed without effect, so a detachment of guards were approaching it with halberds at the ready. As they watched, a tentacle lashed out and threw one poor guardsman half across the courtyard. The man landed in a crump of dented mail and broken bones from which he did not rise.

“Both you and I have good reason to flee this place before our faces are seen,” Bikker said.

“And better reason to stay,” Croy insisted. “When was the last time Acidtongue did what it was made for? A bloodied sword—”

“Is a sword that doesn't rust,” Bikker finished. He looked disgusted for a moment. Disgusted, perhaps, with himself. Then he took his boot off Croy's chest and offered him a hand up.