A Thief in the Night

chapter Sixty-three

A cry went up immediately, and someone shouted, “He has a sword!” but Malden paid no attention to the clamor. He reached inside his tunic with his good hand and skidded to a stop as he came before the great furnace.

More elves waited there. More heavily armed elves, and while some of them slouched against the walls, he knew he would never make it past them all and reach the lift unmolested. But that had never been his plan.

Cythera was there as well, all but carrying Slag. The dwarf looked as if he had only minutes to live. Just one guard stood near the two of them, and he looked more confused than vigilant. Malden shifted the antidote to his bad hand—he could barely close his fist around it—and yanked Acidtongue from its scabbard. As he leapt toward the guard, he shouted, “Only one drop!” and threw the vial of antidote toward Cythera’s outstretched hand.

The guard was taken completely by surprise. Had Malden any training with his sword, he could have taken the elf unawares and cut him in half. Instead he merely managed to swing at the guard’s head, and miss completely.

Behind him, he heard a great clattering of bronze armor as the other elves—he didn’t bother to count how many—came rushing to attack him. The guard he’d threatened lifted his own weapon high in both hands, ready to defend himself.

“What a fool,” one of the elves said. “Take him.”

It had never been Malden’s plan to fight his way out, however. “Hold,” he called, and shoved Acidtongue back into its glass-lined scabbard. “I surrender.” He lifted both hands in the air, fingers spread wide to show he meant it.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cythera dab a drop of the antidote on her finger and stick it down Slag’s throat.

The dwarf gagged and spat, but she held her hand where it was.

“What is she doing?” One of the elves came forward. He wore a circlet of fine silver on his brow, and his armor was in far better condition than the others’. He had a short cape across his shoulders made of very fine cloth, and as he walked he leaned on a slim-bladed sword as if it were a cane. Malden decided he must be the commander of this elfin company. He grabbed Cythera’s hand out of the dwarf’s mouth and held it up to the light.

She stared at him with fierce defiance, but the look in her eyes burned out quickly. When she’d lost her rage, she stared down at her feet.

“Milord,” one of the soldiers near Malden said. “What should we do with him?”

The lord’s face flared with anger. “Get his sword away from him, obviously! And then strip him naked and check him for other weapons. And then—and I really shouldn’t have to tell you this sort of thing again—beat him until he can’t get up.”

Malden’s eyes went wide. He considered drawing Acidtongue and fighting desperately for his life, but he knew that was futile. Reasoning with the elf might prove the better course. He kept his hands above his head as an elf soldier unbuckled his sword belt and took away his bodkin. “I offer you no resistance. I’ve hurt none of you!”

The elfin commander favored him with a thin smile. “And I have express orders to take you alive, if possible.” His eyes twinkled. “But you know, I’ve never actually seen a human before. I’m curious what color your blood is. Finding out might alleviate a little tedium.”

An elf grabbed Malden’s cloak and tore it from his neck. Malden’s bad arm was wrenched badly in the process and he cried out in pain.

“No!” Cythera shouted. She tried to run toward Malden, but the elf commander still held her hand. He must have been stronger than he looked, because she couldn’t break his grip. “No, you can’t, I—I love him!” she screamed.

“Why, that just adds a certain—” the commander began, but then stopped abruptly and stared at Slag.

The dwarf convulsed around his middle and made a horrible gagging sound. Then he leaned forward and vomited all over the foundry floor. Great gouts of black liquid rolled across the flagstones, edging toward the bronze boots of the elfin soldiers.

Every single one of them danced backward, gasping in disgust. Not one of them stood their ground—not even the commander, who yelped like a girl.

Suddenly Malden, Cythera, and especially Slag were standing alone, with no one guarding them or in a position to stop them from running away. Malden would have made a break for it, except that he was watching Slag. The dwarf slumped forward, falling down into the pool of his own sick. Then he vomited again. The elves cringed backward again, while Cythera bent down to grab Slag’s shoulders and pull him back before he drowned in his own vomit.

“In the name of the ancestors—what a stink!” the elfin commander wailed. He pulled his cape up around his nose and mouth and wiped at the tears that dripped from his eyes. “I’ll have no more of this.” He turned and started walking toward the lift.

One of the soldiers managed to regain enough composure to ask, “But milord, what should we do with the prisoners?”

This is the moment he orders us all killed, Malden thought. This is the end.

But it seemed the lord had lost his desire to see the color of human blood. “Follow your orders! I don’t really care!” he shouted back over his shoulder.

Stepping gingerly over the mess on the floor, the soldiers moved in and grabbed at Malden’s arms. He offered them no resistance at all. Others grabbed Cythera, who didn’t even look at them—she was clearly too concerned for the health of the dwarf. There was a great deal of discussion and argument over what should be done with Slag. None of the elves wanted to touch him, and they argued bitterly over which of them should have to do it. In the end, the three of them were searched and all their possessions taken way. Then they were marched toward a section of the wall that looked different from the rest. It was made of crude brick, and when an elf pushed on it, it opened like a door. Beyond lay a narrow tunnel bored inexpertly through the rock.