A Thief in the Night

chapter Ninety-five

Malden moved slowly, watching always the little knife in Prestwicke’s hand. He circled the priest, heading to his right to keep the knife in view.

Prestwicke didn’t move. He didn’t turn to follow Malden. He didn’t even seem to be watching him very closely.

Prestwicke didn’t so much as flinch as Malden roared and came at him. He stood perfectly still—until the last possible moment, when he stepped away from the descending blade. Acidtongue came crashing down on the flagstones, its foaming vitriol burning a deep trench into the stone. Only when Malden was committed to the swing did Prestwicke move. The priest stepped inside of Malden’s reach until their shoulders touched.

Then he pulled his knife across Malden’s back, digging deep through robe and skin and the muscles beneath.

Malden screamed and staggered forward, past Prestwicke. The weight of Acidtongue dragged him downward until he was doubled over in pain.

For a long while he could do nothing but try to breathe through the agony. Prestwicke could have finished him off easily while he was down, but instead the priest merely stood to one side, waiting for him to get up.

Malden caught his breath. He pushed himself upward, using the sword like a cane. Eventually he regained his feet.

From behind him, he heard a sound as soft as a lover’s whisper. The noise of soft shoes slapping on flagstones. Malden whirled to see Prestwicke dashing at him. The bright knife in his hand came for Malden’s kidney, and Malden just managed to roll away from the attack.

He had let himself get distracted. It nearly cost him his life.

Or, no, not his life. At least not yet. He understood now why Prestwicke had kept to his little knife. Why he was taking so long to finish this. Prestwicke wanted him to bleed. He wanted his blood to flow.

Little cuts, but deep ones. Blood loss would kill him—eventually. Malden had seen men bleed to death before, and he knew how it would progress. He would weaken, and then falter, and then struggle for breath. His skin would pale and his lips turn blue. Eventually he would lose consciousness, and drift off to a sleep from which he would never awake. That was exactly how they said the priests of Sadu had once slaughtered their sacrifices, by bleeding them dry.

It was a painful way to die.

Desperate, driven by fear, Malden wheeled up to his feet, Acidtongue flashing out in a broad arc before him. Prestwicke was nowhere close enough to be cut.

Damn. Malden could feel blood sheeting down his back. The cut there had not severed any of his muscles, but it bit deep enough that he could feel blood rolling down his legs. He did not have much more time.

The priest raised his knife high and started to chant. Malden cast a quick glance toward the onlookers. Cythera looked terrified. Aethil the elf queen was staring with eyes that showed no emotion at all. What was her game? Why had she consented to this grotesque spectacle? Malden knew Slag had beseeched Aethil on his behalf—but surely this wasn’t the dwarf’s idea.

He needed to concentrate. He needed to focus. None of it mattered—not Mörget’s escape, not what Cythera was doing. Nothing but where Prestwicke happened to be, and where his knife was.

The next attack came while he was still turning in place, looking for the priest.

The blow came down fast. Malden managed to parry it with Acidtongue, thinking the blade’s acid would burn right through the knife. But Prestwicke must have thought the same thing, for he withdrew his attack before it had even really begun. Then, while Malden was bracing for the impact, Prestwicke slipped the knife under his guard and stabbed him in the stomach.

Malden shrieked in pain and jumped back, away from the knife.

Blood from his newest wound splattered on the flagstones. He had yet to even touch his opponent.