“There you’re wrong. Dwarves built the place, but we weren’t the last to live in it. You called it a tomb, and aye, it is. But before that it was a prison.”
Malden’s eyes widened. He had no desire to rob graves, but breaking into prisons was perhaps worse. The thing about prisons—and this was common knowledge for a thief—was they were hard to get out of once you were inside.
“Was it a prison for dwarves?” Malden asked.
“No. For elves.”
Malden sat up on his mattress and stared.
“Aye, the fucking elves,” Slag said, putting his thumb in the book to save his place. “What do you know about the elves, Malden?”
The thief searched his memory. It was a common enough expression to say that someone or something was “dead as an elf”. Everyone knew Skrae had been infested with elves once, and that now they were gone. But that was almost all they knew. “Pointy ears, right? And evil, they were supposed to be evil. Sometimes people say ‘sharp as an elf’s ear’, and I’ve heard a man called ‘wicked as an elf’ for beating a whore.”
“The ears, yes, those were pointed. As for evil, well, let me tell you something you can learn from. When a man speaks ill of the dead, and calls the corpse evil, you can bet your fundament he killed the poor fucker, and needs an excuse. I don’t suppose the elves were any more evil than you or me. Well, me anyway. But they fought a war with the humans, and they lost, so now they’re remembered as wicked.”
Slag looked up at the ceiling as if reading a page of history there. “In truth, I know little more than you do about them. They lived long lives, it’s said. If they didn’t die in battle they could expect to see their eightieth birthday.”
Malden gasped. That was twice as long as a human’s average span in Skrae. Eighty years seemed to him an eternity. “But they’re dead, now. What happened to them?”
“Men did. Humans forced them out of their lands. They tried to make a final stand in the Vincularium. The last of their kind went into that place eight hundred years ago, and never came out. They starved to death, most like, or turned on each other. A prison and a tomb, as I said.”
“A place like that must be haunted.”
“It’s fucking likely, yes.”
“Death would wait for anyone who ventured inside.”
“Almost assuredly. Now, unless the sound of my voice is lulling you to sleep, perhaps you’d do me a favor and let me read, hmm?” Slag asked. “I want to plumb this volume for any clue as to what awaits me.”
“You want to know how you’re going to die?”
Slag gasped in frustration and slammed the book down on the floor. “At least that way I won’t look so surprised when it happens, now will I? Shut your gob, lad, and let me read!”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The following day the sun was warm and rippled along the surface of the road, while a soft breeze bowed the heads of the wheat. Croy rode on the wagon while Malden drove. Between the demands of watching the horses and the knight’s singing, Malden had no trouble staying awake this time. They made good time in the morning, but had to slow their pace in the afternoon as foam slicked the backs of the hackneys and it was clear they were pushing the horses too hard. Still, by the time pink clouds began to gather in the sky they could already see Helstrow on the horizon—the halfway mark of their journey.
The royal fortress stood in a wide bowl of land cleared of trees and rocks, to allow better fields of fire for the archers on its walls. In shape it looked like a great ship, with a sharp prow and a high stern castle—that must be the king’s palace, Malden thought, a stand of spires and high towers. The fortress stood astride the river Strow, from which it took its name. A hundred flags flew from its high places, and knights in bright armor rode in and out of its three massive gates on endless patrols.
East of the fortress, across the river, an ancient forest grew. Croy told Malden it was the last of its kind in Skrae, a thicket of ancient trees that cloaked the foothills of the Whitewall mountains. To find a forest that old anywhere else, Croy said, you’d have to go as far north as the dwarven kingdom, for the dwarves cared little for the surface world and had never cleared their land in the endless demand for firewood.
“This forest,” Croy told him, “has survived only because no one is willing to get so close to the Vincularium just to chop down trees.”
Malden had a choice to make, whether to part company here and lose himself in the streets of Helstrow—where surely there were things to steal, and a living to be made—or to press on with the party and become a grave robber (and, likely, a meal for a demon). While he was pondering that, however, he was asked for his opinion on another matter.
“The only bridge over the Strow is inside the fortress. We’d have to enter the gates to cross,” Croy said.
“That shouldn’t be a problem—you’re still a knight of the realm,” Malden pointed out. “Even a knight errant should be able to talk his way in.”
“The difficulty is on Mörget’s side. A barbarian in Redweir or in Ness is a curiosity, even a wonder. Inside Helstrow, he’s an act of war. One reason the king stays here is to keep his army close to the Whitewall, where he can respond quickly in case the barbarians flood through the mountain passes.”
“Is an invasion really that likely?” Malden asked.
Croy glanced over at Mörget, but the barbarian was out of earshot. “The people of the east live by conquest. They do not farm, so simply to feed their people they must constantly raid the freeholds and villages of their neighbors. Mostly they harass the hill people north of here, on the border between Skrae and Skilfing, but they’ve long had their eye set on richer bounty. If they were allowed through the passes though … yes. I am certain they would try to conquer us. The threat they pose is real—and kept in abeyance only by constant vigilance on our part.” Croy shook his head. “If Mörget is discovered in Helstrow, we’ll be taken as spies or traitors or worse. And you’ve seen him. He’s hardly inconspicuous.”
“Is there another option?”
Croy frowned, a rare expression on his face. “The Strow is too deep and runs too fast to ford anywhere on its length. We can head downstream a few miles, build a raft, and pole the horses across—but that’s not without its dangers. The current is so swift we could be capsized, and all drown.”
“When choosing between two evils,” Malden said, “my mother always said, make sure you get paid in advance. It seems to me we cannot predict what will happen if we enter Helstrow. Any number of things could go wrong. The river may be treacherous, but at least we know what we face.”
“I think you’re right. But it will add a day to our journey. Thank you, Malden.”
“For my counsel? I’m surprised you even asked for it.”
Croy smiled at him. “You count yourself so worthless, sometimes. You’re one of the most canny men I’ve ever met,” he said. He reached over and slapped Malden on the back. “I know you weren’t born a nobleman, Malden, but you have true honor in your soul. I’ve seen it. There are great deeds in your future.”
Guilt washed through Malden’s veins, a feeling he’d hardly expected. If Croy knew what kind of dishonorable things he dreamed of, concerning Cythera … “I think you do me too much credit.”
Croy shrugged. “I suppose no man can take the measure of his own mettle. Once we’re across the river we’ll discuss this again.”
Malden wasn’t sure what to make of that. Did Croy suspect something? Was he trying to put Malden off his guard? There was no way to know.
Croy stuck two fingers in his mouth