A Thief in the Night

chapter Thirty-three

It seemed to take hours for the torch to fall through the shaft, though it must only have been a few dozen seconds. It landed on something wet, but it went out so quickly and so far away that it was impossible to tell what it had struck.

Then the shaft was dark again, and its secrets were hid once more.

“There used to be more of us,” Slag said, when the shock of the Vincularium’s size had worn off a bit. “More dwarves. There had to be.”

“How many more?” Croy asked. It seemed the rule of silence was utterly broken. “I would imagine the entire population of the dwarven kingdom could live here, and not feel crowded.”

Slag nodded. “Surely. There are maybe ten thousand of us left.” His lips moved quickly, as if he were doing some calculation in his mind. “This place could have held millions. And just look at the design! Hmm. Interesting. Central shaft for ventilation and access. Stratified construction, probably with reinforcing spars on each level—of course, you’d need more at the bottom, to hold the weight of the upper levels, but then what keeps the mountain up? This is some very complex engineering.” He shook his head. “We’ve lost so much. My people couldn’t build one of these now if life depended on it.”

“Slag,” Cythera said, “that giant crystal ball hanging in the middle of the shaft—what is its purpose? Mother has one but it’s only the size of a cabbage. She uses it to scry with. Is this something similar?”

“No f*cking clue,” Slag said. “But no. I can vouch for the fact no dwarf ever peered into a crystal ball.” He strode away from the edge and took his piece of charcoal out of his purse again. For a while he just wandered around, looking for somewhere to draw more figures.

Poor dwarf, Croy thought. He’s looked on the glory of his ancestors and now he needs to draw more magic charms to protect himself against sheer awe.

“All right,” Mörget said. “Enough gawking. Let’s make camp.”

Croy stared at the barbarian in pure surprise. “Here? Now? When we know there’s someone out there, willing to do us harm?”

“I’m tired. I’m sure the rest of you are exhausted. So yes, here. Unless you wish to trek back to the barricade,” Mörget told him. “This is the most defensible spot we have. The—The upside-down graves over there,” he said, gesturing behind him.

“Mausoleums,” Croy said.

“The dead dwarves will screen one flank. Anyone trying to get through there will be slowed down, at the very least. On the other flank we have the pit.”

“Something might come climbing out of it,” Malden suggested.

“The mountain could fall on our heads at any time,” Mörget pointed out in return. “I’ll stand watch while you rest, little thief. Anything that comes out of the pit,” he said, and brandished his axe, “will find me waiting.”

They placed their lanterns together in poor imitation of a campfire and sat around them in a circle. Croy was not surprised to see that Malden fell asleep almost at once, or that Cythera lay down with her head against the thief’s shoulder. He was glad they could take some comfort from each other’s presence, his betrothed and his best friend. Slag sat unquiet, however, passing his piece of charcoal from one hand to the other. As for himself, Croy was unable to rest—he was too aware, always, of the vast quantity of darkness surrounding him. He must have been born on a sunny day, he thought. This impenetrable gloom frayed his nerves and made him jumpy. He would be all too glad when the demon was slain and they could leave again.

Admit it, he told himself. You’re frightened.

Like most boys of Skrae, Croy had grown up believing knights were supposed to be fearless, that they charged into danger without a second thought. That illusion lasted until he fought in his first real battle. He’d vomited while he waited for the enemy to arrive, and tried to cover up his shame by burying his sick. Sir Orne, a fellow Ancient Blade, had laughed at him but then told him the secret of being fearless.

“It’s an act. A mask you wear, to help frighten your enemies. Just as they pretend to be unafraid to frighten you. But honestly we’re all ready to run away, every time, run until we find our mothers and can weep into their skirts.”

“But how do you conquer the fear?” Croy had asked.

“That’s one fight you can’t win. All you can ever hope for is to keep your mask from slipping at the wrong time,” Sir Orne had told him.

He’d never forgotten that lesson.

To pass the time, he spoke in low tones with Mörget and the dwarf.

“What can you tell us of this place?” he asked Slag. “You seemed as surprised as any of us to see how big it is.”

“Aye, lad. There’s little enough to tell, as even the most learned dwarves think of the Vincularium as a piece of the past, perhaps better forgotten. It was a grand city in the days before men came to this land, but ye knew that already. I know it had a different name back then, which was Thur-Karas.”

“What does that name mean?” Mörget inquired.

Slag shrugged. “ ‘Place of the Long Shadows’ is the best translation I can make. Which means as f*cking little to me as it must to you.”

“It sounds baleful,” Mörget said, looking grim.

“Names are often meaningless, or chosen for reasons we cannot fathom,” Croy said. “My own, for instance, means nothing of value.”

“Truly?” Mörget asked, sounding surprised. “I would think a man of rank like yourself would have a name of importance.”

“You do me too much credit. My mother chose the name. Before me, it belonged to an uncle, her favorite brother. That’s all.”

“It must have come from somewhere,” Mörget said.

Croy shrugged. “I imagine my uncle was named after another Croy, perhaps an ancestor. How far back that chain goes I cannot say. Malden and Cythera could probably tell you similar stories. Such is the custom in Skrae.”

Mörget shook his head. “Names should have power. In my land, in the East, we say a man’s name is his destiny.”

Croy raised an eyebrow. “An interesting notion. So when you meet a man, you know something of his character right away. Very practical.”

“If you have to fight a man, you want to know if his name means ‘killer’ or ‘coward.’ It’s useful information.”

Croy opened his pack and took out a jug of ale. He sipped at it, then handed it to Slag, who took a deep pull on it. Mörget, of course, drank no spirits, so the dwarf handed it back to the knight. “So,” Croy said, “what does Mörget mean? Something violent and forceful, no doubt.” He pumped one fist in the air and laughed.

“Hardly. It means simply that I am the son of Mörg. Mörg’s get.”

“And who’s Mörg when he’s not at home?” Slag asked.

Mörget looked as if he’d almost rather not say. It was the first time Croy had ever seen the barbarian look less than enthusiastic about something. And yet he knew from Mörget’s own lips that his father was a great chieftain of the barbarians, a commander of men.

“Sometimes they call him Mörg the Wise. He’s the closest thing we have to a king,” Mörget said, his eyes dark.

Croy spread his arms wide. “There you go. A proud name indeed.”

The barbarian ran one thumb along the blade of his axe. “It is not meant that way. It is meant as a mark of shame. Among my people, no man is worth anything but what he seizes for himself. My name is meant to always remind me that I am not special, nor am I to be favored, just because I am the whelp of a great man. I must achieve something great in my life, or my people will always remember me as someone’s child.”

“Once you kill this demon—”

“Then I will change my name. I will have earned a better one.”

“I can see why you would travel so far to carry out your quest,” Croy said.

“Yes. And now you know about my name, for what good it does you. You. Dwarf.”

Slag looked up. He’d started dozing halfway through Mörget’s explanation. “Huh, yes?”

“Your name seems strange to me. What is a ‘slag’?”

“Slag is a waste product of the smelting process. It’s just what humans call me. A sodding insult, to be true, though mostly they mean it affectionately.”

“I knew it was unusual,” Croy said, slapping his knee. “I was under the impression all dwarf names end with the suffix ‘in.’ Like Murdlin and Snurrin and Therin.”

“Many do. It means ‘descendant of.’ Murdlin, for instance, is the seventh direct grandson of Murdli, the dwarf who invented the blister process of making steel. One of our great heroes. In our land, that is a mark of honor.”

“We come from very different worlds,” Mörget told the dwarf.

“You’re not f*cking kidding.”

Croy laughed. “But what’s your actual name, then, Slag? I hate to think this whole time I’ve been calling you after some noxious substance, when you had a real, proud name I could use.”

“It’s not important,” Slag told him.

“Of course it is,” Croy said. “I have nothing but respect for you, and wouldn’t want to insult you, even in affectionate jest. Why, I—”

“Be still,” Mörget said, jumping to his feet. The axe in his hand pointed out into the dark.

“I told you, it’s not f*cking important,” Slag said, squinting at Croy.

The knight was too busy staring at Mörget to hear him.

“What is it?” Croy asked.

“I hear footsteps. And they’re close.”