The Inquisitives [2] Night of Long Shadows (23 page)

It opened into a short corridor. Two doors opened off either side and a spiral staircase stood at the end, leading up to the second floor of the temple. Cutter crept forward and listened at the nearest door. He couldn’t hear anything, so he opened it and had a quick look inside.

Nothing. Empty of everything but cobwebs and dust.

He closed the door and slipped back to the entrance hall. Just before he entered the torch-lit room, he heard voices. He stopped, knowing he would be invisible to anyone beyond, and waited for the owners of the voices to appear.

He didn’t wait long. Two dark-robed clerics walked into the room and headed beneath the archway to the left of the main doors. Cutter waited a moment to make sure no one else was coming, then followed them.

They led him down a long, sloping corridor. He hung back, able to see their position by the torch they carried. Cutter reckoned this was the passage Wren must have taken, since it headed downward.

He realized that Wren would be moving slowly, scouting the way before he moved. The priests in front of Cutter, however, were moving quite fast—quickly enough to catch up with Wren if Cutter didn’t do something about them.

He hurried his steps and before long, he could see the priests’ outlines as they walked in single file down the cramped tunnel. He drew closer, shifting his hold on his blades. Cutter glanced over the priests’ heads and saw that the corridor soon came to an end at a low doorway. He couldn’t wait any longer. Cutter sprinted the last few steps and grabbed hold of the closest one’s chin. He yanked the priest’s head back and drew the blade quickly across his neck. Blood sprayed everywhere. The remaining cleric let out a shocked cry. Cutter spun around and stabbed him in the
heart before he could do anything else. They both collapsed to the flagstones.

Cutter wiped the knives on their robes, then stepped over the bodies and ducked beneath the lintel onto the stairs. He descended as quickly as possible and soon found himself in a massive room filled with pillars. No one was about, so he headed forward.

He saw Wren—or at least thought it was him—disappear through a distant doorway. He jogged forward, slowing briefly to study an altar with a cage hanging above it. Cutter arrived at the doorway moments later. A faint light glowed from within.

A moment later, all the torches in the huge hall flattened and flickered out as if buffeted by a giant gust of wind. Darkness sank over him like a mist.

Then Cutter heard someone laughing.

Wren reached for a wand at his belt.

“Please do not do that,” requested a raspy voice. “Or I’ll be forced to kill you and your accomplice.”

“What accomplice?” asked Wren. “I’m here alone.”

“Then who is the large human lurking around outside?”

“Ah.” Wren raised his voice. “Cutter, can you come in here?”

“I can’t see anything,” Cutter called back.

“Forgive me,” said the wispy voice. Two pinpoints of red light flared to life.

“Oh, dear,” whispered Wren.

“If you are at all religious,” said the voice from the same vicinity as the glowing eyes, “now would be a good time to pray.”

As if those words were some kind of release, Wren’s night
vision was restored. He stared into the desiccated face of a lich. Wrinkled skin stuck to his skull, no more than a thin covering of ancient gray flesh. Two narrow holes were all that remained of the nose.

Light flared outside as the torches reignited. Wren saw Cutter move away from the door, then return a moment later carrying a torch. He held it at arm’s length, the sputtering flame giving off an oily black smoke. As he entered, the torchlight crawled over the lich, revealing him in all his nightmarish glory. Tall, emaciated, he wasn’t much more than a walking skeleton. His clothing was ancient and tattered, the colors drained by age.

“What I would like to know,” said the lich, “is what you are doing here. It has been some time since anyone was stupid enough to enter my temple.”

“You … weren’t supposed to be here,” said Wren, realizing how weak that sounded.

The lich seemed to agree, because it let loose the dry laugh once again. “Forgive me. I took you for an intelligent man.”

“Maybe if you didn’t go around stealing things from people, we wouldn’t be here,” said Cutter.

Wren winced as the lich turned his attention to Cutter. He tried to gesture for the idiot to keep quiet, but Cutter couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see him.

“And just what am I supposed to have stolen?”

“That!” Cutter pointed at the black chest with one of his knives.

The lich looked in the direction Cutter indicated. His red eyes shrunk to tiny pinpricks. “What makes you think I stole that?”

“Because the cleric told us!” shouted Cutter. He looked at Wren. “Why are we playing this game? Just take it!”

“Cutter—”

“We don’t have time—”

“Cutter!” Wren shouted. “Shut up!”

“You would do well to listen to your friend,” said the lich.

“He’s no friend of mine,” Cutter growled.

“Regardless, you should be thankful of his presence. He is the only thing stopping me from taking your head.” The lich turned to Wren. “And the only reason I am not plucking your heart from your chest is because I am amused.”

Wren frowned. “Amused?”

“Look in the chest. I give you permission.”

Wren hesitated, then turned and approached the box. Cutter brushed past him and flung open the lid. He peered inside.

“It’s full of scrolls,” he said. “Just like she said.” Cutter reached inside.

“Do not touch them!”
roared the lich.

Cutter froze, his hand halfway into the chest. Wren pushed him gently aside. The scrolls were ancient and yellowed. They looked like they would fall apart if he so much as breathed on them.

“Close it,” said the lich.

Wren carefully put the lid back in place. His fingertips left marks on the wood. He absently wiped the dust on his shirt.

“What’s happening?” said Cutter.

“We’ve been tricked,” Wren admitted.

“Tricked? Who by?”

“By the Silver Flame wench.” The lich laughed. “She used you to try to steal my phylactery. My life force. It is the only way I can be harmed.”

“Gaia?” said Cutter. “She tricked us?”

“It would appear so,” said Wren.

“So there never were any scrolls?”

“Doesn’t seem that way.”

“And now,” said the lich, “I think I will kill you after all.”

Wren whirled. The lich walked toward him, hands raised. A crimson glow was forming around his fingers.

Cutter stepped to the side and opened the chest. He held the torch over the scrolls. “Hold!” he ordered.

The lich froze.

Cutter leaned close to Wren. “Run when I give the signal.”

Wren looked at him. “What sig—”

He didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. Cutter thrust the torch into the chest and set the scrolls on fire. The lich howled and lunged forward. Cutter upended the box, scattering the burning scrolls over the floor. Wren sprinted for the door. Cutter came after him, but not before grabbing the chest and thrusting the torch beneath the lich’s clothing. The creature went up like it was soaked in oil.

“That won’t kill him,” said Wren as Cutter joined him. They both ran into the huge chamber.

“No, but it might delay him long enough for us to get out.” Without waiting for a response, he started running as fast as he could.

Wren joined him, the screams of rage and pain echoing behind them like a strong wind at their backs.

They skirted the courtyard and reached the crypt. Torin scrambled to his feet. Gaia turned to face them.

“Did you get it?”

Cutter threw the box at her. She caught it and fumbled with the catch, almost dropping it in her eagerness. She yanked it open and looked inside.

“But …” she looked from Wren to Cutter. “There’s nothing in here.”

Wren smiled. “Sorry, my dear. You told us to get the chest, and that’s what we got. We’re not responsible for its contents.”

“But the scrolls aren’t here! If you think I’m giving you—”

Cutter strode forward and lowered his face until it was inches from Gaia’s. “Don’t even
think
about trying to go back on the deal,” he said softly. “You wanted the chest, we got it. And we nearly got killed in the process. You said the lich wasn’t there.”

“He wasn’t! He must have come back when I wasn’t watching.”

“You will give us what is ours,” said Cutter.

“Or what?” said Gaia.

“Or I send Wren and Torin away and you get to see what I can do with this.” Cutter held the point of his knife close to her eye.

Gaia thought about it. After a moment, she nodded. “Fine.”

“Good girl,” said Cutter, and sheathed his knife.

W
hen Cutter first entered Wren’s apartments, he had to struggle to keep the amazement from showing on his face. He’d be damned if he let the half-elf see how he felt. He probably watched everyone who came into the place just to see their reactions.

Cutter glanced over, and sure enough, Wren was watching him with a slight look of disappointment.

The thing that was so impressive about the apartment was that it seemed to be outfitted entirely from livewood. The wood had been coaxed and shaped into everything possible: chairs and desks, bookshelves and partitions. It must have taken decades to get the apartment into its current form.

“It was my father’s pet project,” said Wren, launching into a little speech in spite of Cutter’s apparent unconcern. “He poured all of his time and a substantial amount of money into it. Wanted it ready when he retired.” Wren looked up at the gracefully curved branches that formed the rafters. “Unfortunately, that
meant neglecting everything else while he worked on it, his family included.”

Wren glanced at Cutter. “He died two days before he was to move in. My mother always said there was a lesson there, but we could never decide if it was about the foolishness of putting off one’s enjoyment to some unforeseen future, or spending all your time on pointless projects.” He grinned. “I always said it was the first, she said the second.”

“And he’s devoted his life to making sure he doesn’t repeat his father’s mistakes,” said Torin, heading past them into the lounge. He took a bottle of wine from the specially grown alcoves.

“Indeed. Instant gratification is the way to go. At least if I die, I’ll die happy.”

Wren put the small box on the dining table and sat down. He took off the lid and set it aside while Torin poured three glasses of wine and handed them round. Cutter took his crystal glass gingerly, scared he was going to break the delicate stem.

“I don’t suppose you have any ale?”

“Afraid not, no.”

“Didn’t think so.” He placed the glass gently on the table and turned his attention to the box. The Khyber dragonshard lay on a bed of white cloth—Cutter leaned closer. It looked like a towel. The shard itself was black, about the length of his hand, with purple-blue veins running through it. Such a small thing to be responsible for so much trouble.