Croy had to admit, not without a twinge of professional jealousy, that it made short work of the demon that had nearly overwhelmed him.
“Now,” Bikker shouted, and Croy ducked under a flailing arm and into the gap Bikker made. A seeming wall of severed stumps lay before him. The demon had continued to grow even after the tower fell on it, and now it seemed as big as the palace. Severed arms beat at his head and shoulders, and smaller tentacles reached to grab his arms and legs, but Croy laughed as he brought Ghostcutter around with both hands wrapped about its hilt. He brought it up to his shoulder, then drove it down with all its might into the join between two tentacles. The blade met some resistance at first but then pierced the tough skin and sank deep into the demon’s body, all the way up to its quillions.
That, it turned out, was enough to make the demon scream.
Its voice was high and chirping like a bird’s, but loud enough to shatter glass windows in the palace. Its scream was wordless and atonal, a simple heart cry so pure and piteous that it could mean only the creature’s death. It screamed with its mind, not with any audible voice, like many demons of Croy’s experience. His brain was battered by a trillion small voices speaking gibberish, but pleading, begging, beseeching him to withdraw his sword. When Croy refused, the demon tried to pull back physically, to roll away from the sword, to thrash itself free. It redoubled its attacks, its arms wrapping around Croy’s body so thick they covered him head to toe. But its strength was already ebbing and he only held fast, grunting in pain. By the time Bikker reached him and cut him free, the demon was already dead and its tentacles slithered off of him as if he’d been buried in a pile of so much rope.
Croy stumbled over its severed arms where they littered the courtyard and out into the moonlight, gasping for air. When he had a little breath back, he started to laugh. Bikker slapped him hard on the back and he nearly went down on one knee.
By the mercy of the Lady, that had felt good. To do the thing he was sworn to do, once more. Demons were so rare upon the land these days that he’d had to find other uses for Ghostcutter’s puissance, and not always things he was proud of. He’d nearly forgotten the purity and the clear conscience that came from fighting demons.
Beside him, Bikker looked possessed of the same emotion. He was smiling from ear to ear, all malice gone from his eyes. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was something of the hero in the man yet. Perhaps the man who Croy had once know was not yet dead. He’d thought Bikker lost to the tide of cynicism and shifting morality that sullied this world, but perhaps…
The castellan came running from the palace, pulling a dressing robe around his withered frame. “Water!” the old man cried. “The Guardian must be doused in water, or it’ll keep growing until it chokes the world! Fetch water from the well, bring more from the river! Water! Water!”
Eventually the castellan saw the corpse of the demon-his eyes had never been very good, and age had worsened them-and stopped his shouting. “Water,” he said with a dejected air. “Water would have made it shrink.”
“Cold iron and acid seem to work, too,” Bikker said, taunting the old man. He laughed heartily. “Don’t tell me, castellan, that you’ve been harboring a demon inside these walls. Don’t tell me you made a pet of a pit fiend.”
The three of them stared at the body as it began to smoke and dissolve. It was not a creature of this world, and lacking now its vital force, it had nothing to protect it from the abhorrence of nature. In moments its corpse would resolve to nothing but a stink of brimstone and a blackish residue on the stones.
“It’s the Guardian of the-the-” The castellan’s face turned dark with congested blood. It was a high crime for any man to summon a demon or to keep one hidden. For decades Croy and knights like him had been hunting down sorcerers capable of performing the necessary rituals. Now only a handful of them remained, and all of them closely watched. If it could be proved that, say, Hazoth had summoned this demon, he would be burnt at the stake. Even for one as powerful as the Burgrave, harboring a demon could be a hanging offense. Should Bikker or Croy bring news of this to the capital But then the castellan’s face creased with shrewdness. He pointed one long and trembling finger at the two swordsmen.
“You are an escaped prisoner. And you have no right to be here,” he said.
Croy looked at Bikker. “I’d hoped when we saved the palace from the demon, all might be forgiven.”
Bikker grinned wickedly. “Did you expect justice in this life, lad? Have you learned so little of my teachings?”
“Guards!” the castellan shouted. “Take these two under arrest!”
Suddenly the walls of Castle Hill were crowded with archers, while men of the watch in their cloaks-of-eyes came streaming in through the Market Square gate.
“I had hoped to talk to you more. But we’ll meet again,” Croy said.
“You may be assured of it,” Bikker agreed.
And then they split up, running in opposite directions as fast as their legs could carry them.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Curse you, leave off,” Malden whimpered. His strength was nearly gone. The joints in his arms and shoulders burned, and his legs had cramped where he used them to brace himself against the pull of the demon. He would not let go of the crown, but inch by inch, inexorably, the tentacle was pulling it closer to the debris of the tower room. Sweat poured down into Malden’s eyes but he didn’t dare wipe it away. He heaved backward with every muscle in his body but still gained no ground.
And then-he did. He was able to straighten out a fraction, to pull the crown closer to his body. The tentacle throbbed and started to whip back and forth. Its grip loosened and then the crown slithered free of its embrace.
Malden fell back, panting like a dog. He stared at the tentacle, expecting it to renew its grasp, but it did not. In fact, it flopped across the floor and did not move at all. As if the demon had perished, unseen by him, and could fight no more. Even as he watched, the thing began to melt.
He could hardly believe it. He stared at the crown in his hands. It had not stretched or bent at all in the struggle, though it was made of gold, one of the softest of metals. Its crenellations had dug deep gouges in his palms and fingers, and his blood slicked its surface. He longed to put it down, to tend to his cuts, but he dared not let it out of his hands, even for a moment. He couldn’t bear the thought.
Of course, he didn’t have to put it down, if he just set it on his head…
You have done well, thief, the crown said.
“Say no more, I beg of you,” Malden moaned. He thought how much he had risked for this prize. He could easily have been killed in that final moment before the tower fell-yet the voice had commanded him, and he obeyed. Now he knew it wanted more. It wanted him to put it on his own head.
Surely that was sacrilege. Wasn’t it? He was no Burgrave. He couldn’t legally wear it. If anyone saw him with it on, he would be arrested at once for impersonating a noble.
And yet… what sweet justice it would be, wouldn’t it? It was almost maddening, it was so appealing. For a common thief, the son of a whore, to wear even for a moment the coronet of temporal power.
Malden began to raise it toward his head.
The thing was magic. Who knew what powers it might have? Maybe it would grant him wishes. Maybe it would turn him instantly into a man of estate, of power. Such things were told of in stories, sometimes, such things were…
… were…
… too good to be true.
Malden lowered the crown again. He didn’t let it go. No, that would be too much to bear. But he forced down the urge to put it on.
He had a horrible presentiment-a certain hunch-that if he put the crown on his head, he would never willingly take it off again. And that would have presented more problems than it was likely to solve.
He felt the thing pulse in his hands, a little jolt of anger. He had thwarted its design and it wasn’t happy. Malden had to fight with himself to contain his natural impulse, which was to do anything, anything at all, to make the crown happy again.
If you will not wear me, then carry me to the castellan. He will see to my safety.
