Chapter Seventy-Five
Croy’s wound throbbed as he strode across the grass. It did not pain him, but only sought to remind him that he was not at the full extent of his powers.
He ignored it.
The ogre was beset now, with guards on every side trying to bring him down. They focused their attacks on his vulnerable face, and it was all the ogre could do to protect his eyes. Already he was bleeding from a dozen cuts on his cheeks and forehead.
“Enough,” Croy said, loud enough to be heard over the clamor of battle.
His announcement did not have the effect he’d hoped for.
One of the guards looked over and saw him, but the rest maintained their attack on Gurrh. Apparently the guards still thought the ogre was the main danger, even with the presence of an Ancient Blade on the field. Well, Croy thought, he had taught plenty of men to respect the sword he carried and the office it represented. He snarled and lifted the round oak shield he’d strapped across his left forearm. Normally he fought with two swords and no protection, but his left arm wasn’t strong enough yet to hold a sword properly so he’d chosen the shield instead. It had an iron boss in its center and a strip of steel around its rim. He’d trained with every manner of shield made by man or dwarf, and he knew exactly what to do with them. Just now, he clanged his shortsword against the boss, making a noise as loud as a ringing bell. “Over here,” he shouted.
That got a few more of the guards looking at him. One split off from the group attacking the ogre and jogged over to confront him. He was a big man carrying a military fork, its two long tines sharpened only at their points. A weapon usually meant for bringing down horses on the battlefield or for punching through heavy armor.
Of course, it would pierce Croy’s vitals just fine, should he allow its owner an opening.
“Who are you, and what in the Bloodgod’s foulest name do you want?” the guard challenged. He brought his fork down and shifted his hands backward on the haft. That put his points close to Croy’s chest and kept the guard well outside of sword range.
The knight smiled. “I am Sir Croy, and I serve the Burgrave, the king, and the Lady. I want you to drop that thing and run away. But I don’t think you will.”
“I think you’re right. Get out of here, knight-we have our hands full already.”
Croy shook his head. “I can’t do that. I want you to know that I’m sorry about this. But you serve an evil master, and I have much work to do tonight. So I can’t offer you any quarter.”
The guard’s lips curled back and he started to laugh wickedly.
Gurrh screamed then. It was not a pretty noise-it sounded like a lion being brought down by archers. The guard looked over his shoulder to see what was happening.
Croy took the advantage. It wasn’t the most honorable thing he’d ever done, but he was hard-pressed. He jammed his shield forward onto the tines of the military fork, hard enough to embed them deep in the oak. Before the guard could respond and pull them free, Croy twisted his left arm around-it hurt, but he had the strength to do it-and wrested the haft of the polearm right out of the guard’s hands. Then he hurled himself forward, leading with his right shoulder, and let the shortsword whistle through the air.
Swords wanted to cut. They wanted to draw blood-it was what they were made to do. Like a horse that when given its head will follow a track rather than traipsing off into brambles and rough ground, the sword cut through the air with very little help from Croy’s strength. It connected with the guard’s shoulder and bit deep into the meat of his arm. The guard howled and dropped to his knees as blood darkened his sleeve.
It wasn’t a killing blow. The guard would heal in time and feel no lasting effects. But it was a painful wound, and it would render him unable to fight with a polearm for the rest of the night.
Croy had promised himself that he would kill these men if he had to. He had steeled himself against the necessity. But this man had barely been paying attention. A killing stroke would have just been unsporting.
A good shake of his left arm-which was starting to pain him-loosened the military fork from his shield. Croy let it clatter on the ground and then lifted his blooded sword high. “Who among you shall be next?” he shouted.
Suddenly all the guards were staring at him.
Chapter Seventy-Six
Malden crept down a hallway that ran the length of the third floor, looking for the locked door that would lead to Hazoth’s sanctum. He could afford to be a little noisier now, since the hallway itself was far from silent.
Visitors to the house would never be allowed up here, he knew. Because this was where the villa got strange. The floating dining room table, the living books, the man of smoke he’d seen downstairs had all been miraculous, even wonderful. But up here was where Hazoth’s real magic was done.
The door to the laboratory was open, and Malden could hear foul ichors and mysterious fluids bubbling and oozing inside. A greenish light leaked out of that room, and the air before its door shimmered as if something inside were enormously hot-though when Malden passed it, he felt a chill and unwholesome breeze. The next room down the corridor concealed a kind of bestiary, judging from the mournful howling and frightened whimpering he heard. What manner of beasts were trapped within, whether ordinary animals to be experimented upon or exotic creatures kept as curiosities, he could not guess. He was not so foolish as to open the door just to find out.
A third door seemed to breathe in as he passed it, then exhale as he watched. As if the door itself was alive. He could see a dim, shimmering light coming from the crack between the bottom of the door and the floorboards. The light was the dark red of pitfire. Malden couldn’t help himself. He reached for the doorknob, thinking to throw open the door and see what lay beyond.
Just then, however, the door exhaled again-and filled the air before him with the stench of brimstone. He withdrew his hand quickly.
It couldn’t be, could it? This must be some kind of sorcerous joke. There was no way even a man like Hazoth would have a door in his house that led directly to the pit itself. What if someone opened that door by mistake?
But then-no one who was allowed up here would ever make that mistake. Not unless Hazoth wanted them to.
Malden kept moving. He passed another door and heard a very different kind of sound-no less plaintive- coming from within. Someone was weeping in there, though not someone human. The sounds were unnatural and unnerving, rising now and then to a crescendo of wailing that never came from any human throat. Lower, and harder to hear, was a rhythmic grunting that did sound human. It would seem Hazoth was
… entertaining in there.
An urge to throw open the bedchamber door and see what a succubus really looked like gripped Malden, but he was able to fight it back down. It would be his doom, for one thing-to surprise Hazoth like that would be the very definition of folly. For another, judging by the sounds she made, he was willing to guess the succubus looked nothing like the toothsome painting on the wall of the House of Sighs.
A few steps farther and he came to a quite ordinary door that proved to be locked when he tried its latch. This must be the door Kemper had described for him, he decided. The door that opened on the trapped corridor. Beyond lay the sorcerer’s unholy sanctum-and the crown.
To this point Malden’s trespassing had gone without significant setbacks. Beyond this door the real game would begin, he knew. He wished for the thousandth time he could guess what lay beyond. Kemper hadn’t dared risk it, and Cythera had been unable to tell him anything. He would be wholly reliant on his own wits.
Glancing up and down the corridor to make sure Cythera wasn’t about to walk up behind him, he knelt on a rug before the door. He unwrapped his tools from the hilt of his bodkin and laid them out carefully beside him. Then he took a small dark lantern from his belt, and carefully lit the tiny candle inside. The tin lantern let no light at all escape until he slid open a hatch on its side. The beam thus released was just wide enough to shine into a keyhole.
