A Thief in the Night

chapter Eighty-nine

For a long while Croy heard nothing but a voice roaring close to his ear. He could not seem to open his eyes, or move his hands, but he could hear just fine. Unfortunately all he could hear was Mörget.

“—pull your tongues from your mouths, flay the skin off your backs, the clans will tear you out branch and root, your stomachs burst open, your eyes spitted, your—”

Croy felt like he was trapped at the bottom of a well, with only the curses echoing down to him from above. He tried to swim upward, to reach for the light, but his body felt like it was made of lead. Straining and groaning, he stretched his consciousness as far as it would go and it snapped back, rubbery and ineffectual.

He was moving, always moving. He very much wanted to lie still. He felt sick and afraid. He felt like he was going to throw up, but still he couldn’t see where he was. Open one eye, he told himself. Just open one eye and take a quick look. Find out where you are, at least.

His body refused to acknowledge his desires. He was barely aware of it at all, aware only of the motion and the noise.

“—guts steaming on the hot ground, eat your liver, tear it apart with my own teeth, smash your brains with a rock—”

If Mörget would just be quiet—but no. No, it was helping. The bellowing imprecations were anchoring his consciousness. Without them he would be lost, adrift. So instead of ignoring the foul words, Croy focused on them. Struggled to hear them better.

“—grind your bones, stretch your skins on frames, the death of one cut, blood on the rocks, blood to paint our tents, blood, blood, blood—”

Open one eye.

Open it.

Croy’s left eyelid parted, only a crack. Light streamed in and for a moment he was swimming again, swimming and spinning and lost, but then the light dimmed, became almost bearable. He turned his eye left and right.

He was in a room with walls of every possible color. Music was playing somewhere, no, not music, just the sound of bells, rattling bells.

If he pushed his eye all the way over to the left, he could just see the side of Mörget’s face. Thick cords bound the barbarian’s head, one holding his chin, others crossing his forehead, holding him in place. Croy grunted and tried to move his arms, and felt similar cords holding him down as well. He was bound. Immobilized.

An elfin face surrounded by black cloth appeared before him. The bells were attached to the elf’s black cloak, and they stirred and jingled every time he moved. The elf was speaking. Croy had to force himself to ignore Mörget so he could hear what the elf said. He was soon sorry for it.

“—in a different era, we had a special torment for humans who despoiled our lands. We would stake them out in the forest, in a clearing where a little sunlight came, and underneath their bodies we would plant the seeds of fast-growing trees. Over a period of months, the trees would grow, spreading branches upward toward the light—through the bodies of the interlopers. The agony was supposed to be beyond measure, as the woody growths pressed against their skin, then penetrated their flesh. Special care was taken to make sure no branch pierced a vital organ, because then the human would die too quickly. No, we wanted them to understand why this was done. We wanted them to know what despoiling felt like. Intimately. Of course, now we have no trees. I imagine we can think of something else, given time.”

The black-clad elf fell silent. He nodded politely as someone else spoke. Who, Croy could not have said—he couldn’t see the other party. He tried desperately to open his right eye, to twitch his fingers, anything, but it seemed his strength was used up.

“Of course,” the elf said, replying to something Croy hadn’t heard. “You have done us proper service, and you will be rewarded. You will have the one you seek, to kill as you desire. His name was . . . Malton?”

“Malden, milord.” Croy heard the other’s voice this time. It was the voice of the priest, the man in the undyed habit who had drugged him. Who had captured him and turned him over to the elves.

“Malden. I must . . . remember that.” The elf’s eyes turned inward then, and he sank back onto a waiting couch. “I must take my leave of you now,” he said. The elf lay on his couch and stared up at the ceiling.

Croy searched the room with his one open eye but could find no one else in it. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound, except Mörget, still raving:

“—slit along the forehead, just at the hairline, then slip the knife under the skin and cut a flap, peel back, we will take your hair and make plumes for our helmets, we will slaughter your children and make slaves of your women, we will—”

It was too much. All too much. What little energy Croy had marshaled had been used up, just for that one moment of lucidity. His eye fluttered closed again. He could not have kept it open for any price. Soon even the sound of Mörget’s cursing receded, and he sank into a heavy velvet sleep, fighting all the way down.

In the last part of his mind to stay awake, his own voice rang out, echoing off the walls of his skull. Malden. You’re still alive. Malden, you’re alive.

Though not, apparently, for much longer.