in the stable behind him.
It felt good to get moving. It felt good to begin.
For far too long Croy had been a true knight errant—a warrior without a master, or any well-defined purpose. He’d been sworn to fight demons but there were so few of them left now. He’d been sworn to defend the king, and then the Burgrave of Ness, but both of them had severed him from their service. A man like Croy needed a reason to keep going, to stay strong.
Well, the Lady had provided that.
He knew nothing of this demon, not its capabilities or how great a danger it was to the world. Yet he was certain that it had to be destroyed, and that he was the man for the job. He, and Mörget, of course.
The barbarian came down from the door of the inn stretching and stamping, looking well-rested and ready to get underway. “Starting in the rain’s a good omen,” he said, looking up into the clouds. He opened his mouth wide to catch the raindrops, then swished them about his teeth and spat into the mud. “Means it’ll be dry when we arrive.”
Croy laughed. All deep thoughts about duty and purpose fled his mind with the excitement of the journey’s commencement. “I hope you’re right. It does mean we’ll have to make a short day of it, and find some shelter before dark. It’s getting cold early this year.”
The barbarian went back inside to get a bundle that he dumped on the tailgate of the wagon. It clanked loudly as he shoved it in with the rest of the gear.
“Sounds like you’ve got half an arsenal in there,” Croy said.
“All that I need,” Mörget told him, with a shrug. “A man with a proper axe can survive in the wild longer than a man with a hundred weight of food, and no axe.”
Croy laughed. He was glad to have the barbarian along. Mörget was right, too—the food in the wagon would only last so long and he imagined they would have to hunt before they reached their destination, if they didn’t want to starve.
Once everything was loaded they were ready to depart, and waited only on the two other members of their expedition. Slag the dwarf arrived first. Croy had been quite surprised when Slag had found him the night before and demanded to be included. Croy knew Slag only a little, through his connection to Malden, but from what he’d heard Slag was an unlikely traveling companion. For one thing, all dwarves were known for their hatred of travel, even those who worked as ambassadors for their king and had to move from place to place all the time. By contrast Slag was a city dwarf, accustomed to the refinements of Ness, and by Malden’s account he’d been a fixture in the city for many years. He had given little explanation for why he wanted to leave just now, or why he would want to go to the Vincularium, but Croy supposed little was needed. Dwarves had built the place, after all, though so long ago none alive could remember it, surely. Mörget had been enthusiastic about allowing Slag to come along, saying that the dwarf would be useful in overcoming the Vincularium’s many traps and blind passages. An important addition to their crew since their thief had refused to accompany them. Croy had offered no real objection. After all, Slag was a friend of Malden. That was enough to vouch for the diminutive man right there.
“Well met, friend,” Croy said, and bowed to clap hands with the dwarf. “We ride today toward true adventure!”
“Picked a lousy fucking day for it,” the dwarf replied. Without another word he climbed up under the leather cover on the wagon and curled around a barrel. In a few moments he was snoring.
Mörget and Croy exchanged a smile and went to get the horses. By the time they had them out of the stable, Cythera had arrived as well. Croy gave her a knowing look as she placed her own gear on the wagon. She was dressed in an old cloak with the hood up over her hair. It hid her eyes as well.
“Shall we get started?” she asked, when Croy opened his mouth.
He had been about to give her a chance to change her mind, and remain in the City until he returned. Clearly she still intended to go.
“Very well,” he said. “You take the palfrey. He’s gelded, and a good ambler. Mörget can have the rounsey for now. That’s a man’s horse.”
Cythera turned to face him and he saw she was glaring at him under her hood.
“I meant simply that the rounsey will better bear his weight, that’s all,” Croy said, desperate to mollify her. “I’ll drive the wagon for this first day.”
Cythera said nothing more but climbed onto the palfrey and kicked its flanks to get it moving. Croy had to hurry to jump up on the wagon and get the hackneys moving, just to keep up with her. She led them downhill, through the Stink toward King’s Gate, which opened on the road toward Helstrow. They passed by a fish market on their way there, where poor women braved the rain to get the freshest catch, and then past a small churchyard. Croy frowned—that was a bad omen, riding past graves on the way to danger—but he did not call for a change of course.
Soon he saw the wall rise up before them, sheer and white and looming over the buildings that crowded around its feet. The rain had flooded some of the side streets but the main way stayed clear. Croy leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and started lulling himself into the old familiar trance of the road. The rhythmic clop of the horses’ hooves and the grinding of the wagon’s wheels on the cobbles made a song of journeying. In a few minutes they would pass the gate and be on their way. The way would be long, and there would be obstacles to overcome, but he was on a quest again, a mission. How he had longed for—
—something heavy dropped onto the leather cover of the wagon behind him. Slag shouted out a curse as if he’d been struck. Croy pulled on the reins and the hackneys whinnied as he slowed them. Turning around, one hand already on Ghostcutter’s hilt, he stared with wide eyes.
“Room for one more?” Malden asked. He lay sprawled across the wagon’s cover, as if he’d fallen there out of the thin air. For some reason his face was badly bruised, and one of his eyelids was nearly swollen shut. “I have a sudden urge to get some country air,” the thief offered, by way of explanation.
INTERLUDE
Snurrin the dwarf armorer closed up his shop an hour early that day, sending his human employees home with a half-hearted excuse—he’d had too much sun, he told them, and needed to rest somewhere cool and dark or he’d be worthless for the next morning’s appointments. The humans didn’t seem to care why they were released early from their labors. As was typical of the gangly bastards they were just glad for a chance to spend the evening in a tavern drinking away their wages.
“Fucking layabouts,” Snurrin muttered once they were gone. It felt good to be able to swear like a proper dwarf, something he never did when humans were around. Humans, he thought, were so very tall and brutish, and so very good at killing one another, but they acted liked strong language was more dangerous than any weapon in his shop. Utter one good profanity and half of them just fainted dead away.
He locked up the day’s take in his strongbox, then cleaned up the workshop where he’d spent most of the day fletching crossbow bolts. When he was done he headed up to the top floor of his shop where he kept his living quarters. Heavy velvet drapes covered all the windows there, blocking out the fierce sunlight. They were tacked in place but still a few errant beams of light broke into his room. More than enough to see by. Snurrin went to his desk and took out a long thin strip of paper. Using a heavy stylus of white lead, he wrote out a message
