The Melding Thief Read online

  He felt the surge of power seep deep into the fibres of his muscle until he felt as though he could run a hundred miles. When the flow stopped, suddenly and abruptly, he gasped and nearly toppled forward. Steadying himself, he looked up into the magus' hard gaze.

  “Again.”

  The next fortification was of strength, then grace and health. Each time it was always the same—the feeling of the rune searing into his skin, followed by the overwhelming gush of power. Only the effects were different. The fortification of strength left him feeling as though he could unearth any of the surrounding trees with his bear hands, while the fortification of grace provided him with the balance and agility to run through the branches without missing a step.

  When it was finished, Kelven carried two brands on his chest and one on each shoulder. His body trembled with the overflow of melding magic. He drew the second strength wand from his pack, extending it to the Ravenwalker.

  The magus shook his head.

  “But—“

  “Not a chance. A second fortification would increase your strength exponentially, but your flesh can only stand so much. The magic would overwhelm you. If you were lucky, it would render you unconscious. If not—well, the black lung wouldn’t be a concern anymore. Now tell me, how do you feel?

  “About ready to burst. ”

  “Which only proves my point. You’re certain you can manage this?”

  “There’s only one way to find out.” Kelven pulled on his tunic and threw his cloak around his shoulders. He secured his sword and knife and turned in the direction of the castle. He hesitated. Looking back, he met the magus’ steady gaze. “If I don’t make it—“

  “I’ll see that they’re taken care of.”

  “You know, then? What I was going to ask of you when this was over?” The Ravenwalker responded with a solemn nod that made Kelven wonder what else the man might know. “My thanks, magus. Meet me at the servant's entrance. If I'm not there within the hour, chances are I'm not coming at all, and you'll need to finish this yourself.”

  Kelven didn’t wait for a response. He turned and bounded through the shadows of the Aspenrun.

  He passed several guards as he ran. They never knew he was there. He bounded along with silent grace, just one more shadow in the deep velvet of the night. He considered setting an ambush but decided it wasn't worth the trouble. The mercenary company was probably small enough that dressing himself in their armour would provide no disguise at all. At the moment, his greatest ally was speed.

  When the castle came into view, it was much as the Ravenwalker had described. A perimeter of raised lanterns illuminated the walls, which had been built into the side of a hill that rose up out of the forest. Its architecture was simple and square. Ruined as it was, it still maintained enough of its original structure to provide a functional refuge. Mounds of moss-covered stone marked the places where several towers had once stood. Only the north tower remained, stretching up like a spear into the night, with the dark smudge of a window near the top.

  Taking a moment to ensure there were no guards in the immediate vicinity, Kelven skirted around the ruin, taking note of the servant’s entrance. As he approached the north tower, he broke into a sprint. He closed quickly and jumped. Powered by his fortification, his legs launched him high into the air. His hands closed around the tower’s stone with inhuman strength.

  Kelven started to climb.

  Hand over hand, he hauled himself upward like some sort of bipedal spider. It was not the first time he'd scaled a wall, but he couldn't remember it ever having come so easily. There was no ache in his arms or back, no shaking of his legs or trembling of his hands. Every movement was smooth and controlled. By the time he reached the window, he felt as though he could have climbed another three or four times the height of the tower.

  He scampered up through the narrow opening and found himself crouching in a nearly vacant chamber. The tattered fibres of an old tapestry hung form tarnished hooks. Wooden crates were piled against one wall, so thoroughly rotted that they seemed to ooze ruined fabric and a trail of rat droppings. A thick layer of grime covered the floor, dotted with a thousand small footprints—though there was no evidence of any rats currently in residence. A single wooden door marked the chamber's only exit.

  Kelven tested the door and found it fastened by a rusted lock. One fortified kick was enough to shatter the mechanism. The door swung open, revealing a spiral staircase draped in heavy shadow. The sounds of creaking hinges and clattering wood echoed off the walls. He pushed through the opening and raced down the steps, taking them three at a time.

  He nearly fell to his death when the stone stairs vanished.

  In became abundantly clear why the tower's upper chamber had been abandoned. A large portion of the staircase had fallen away, crumbled into a pile of rubble, forty feet below. Even fortified as he was, Kelven doubted that he would survive such a fall. He looked around for some other way down. A few fragments of broken stone jutted out from the wall, but the closest was a good fifteen feet from the precipice. It was an impossible jump under normal circumstances. But maybe with a bit of extra strength and grace.

  He didn’t bother to finish the thought.

  Back-pedalling up the stairs, he burst into a short, explosive sprint. At the last moment, the stairs betrayed him, crumbling beneath his feet at the very moment of his jump. Without a firm surface to push off, he couldn’t generate the force that he needed. For one terrible moment, he hung in the air, certain of his own impending death. He stretched out his arm as far as he could manage—and then even farther.

  When his fingers closed around solid stone his grip tightened, halting his fall but sending him crashing into the unforgiving wall. A cloud of dust burst around him. There was a hot sting across his face, where it scraped against the rough stone. He tasted the trickle of blood from where his teeth had ripped open his tongue. Miraculously, his lungs didn’t react.

  “You hear that?” A gruff voice floated up from somewhere below.

  The question was met with a disinterested grunt. “Damned stairs keep comin’ down. The old bastard should just bring the whole tower down. Could use the stone to fix up the curs’d hearth.”

  “That’s the flaming truth,” responded the first voice. “Or to fortify the gate. I’m telling you, I saw something out there. These woods are cursed.”

  “Bah. What’a pile of horse dung!”

  “I swear it. Borst saw it too. Big as a bear he said—“

  Kelven hung in place, listening as the voices trailed off. When he was satisfied that the guards had moved on, he continued his descent. He moved as quickly as he dared, trusting in the fortification of grace to maintain his balance while reminding himself that there was no need to be reckless.

  Most of the footholds and handholds were close enough for him to move between them with ease, but there were a few places where he needed to stretch. Once, he was forced to swing himself back and forth to gain the momentum for another leap. Luck was with him, and the old stone held.

  When he was about six feet from the ground, Kelven let himself drop, landing with all the silent grace of a prowling panther.

  He found another doorway at the bottom of the tower, though it had no actual door. Crouching low, he crept his way into a narrow corridor, illuminated with the flickering of a half-dozen lanterns. He listened for approaching footsteps. Hearing none, he slinked along. Keeping the position of the servant’s entrance firmly in his mind, he snaked his way through the shadows. Once, he heard the approach of the guards and ducked into an alcove to avoid them.

  Eventually, he reached a section of the castle with more evidence of everyday living. Rustless weapons leaned in corners. Cloaks hung from pegs that had been driven into the stone. The smells of strong ale and spice masked the stench of old stone, reminding him of just how long it had been since he had last eaten. He ignored the persistent gnaw in his stomach and pressed on.

  He'd almost reached the large, wooden d
oor of the rear entrance when a guard stepped out of an adjoining room. The man was shorter than Kelven, with a hatchet face and an ugly scar running across one eye. Their gazes met. The man froze. His hesitation was his undoing. Kelven lashed out with one fortified fist.

  Bone crunched and flesh tore. The guard crumpled to the floor without so much as a whimper. Massaging his aching knuckles, Kelven checked for any sign of life. He found none. Hells! Another death by my hand. He lifted the limp body and carried it to a nearby alcove, tucking it behind a barrel and covering it with a cloak. That should keep him hidden for a bit.

  Moments later, he was throwing back the latch and opening the door to the outside.

  He found the Ravenwalker waiting for him, just as they'd planned. The magus was leaning heavily on his staff. His shoulders were stooped, and his black cloak was marred with bright blood. Several splatters were already drying across the scars of his face. He was gazing downward, muttering under his breath. When he looked up, his eyes were brimmed with distant anguish.

  “There were complications,” he said, as though to explain away some unasked question.

  Kelven nodded, his own mind turning back to the body beneath the cloak. “There always are. We’d best keep moving. I’ve already encountered one guard.”

  Without further comment, the magus passed into the castle, leaving Kelven to close the open door and re-fasten the latch.

  “Do you know where we’re going?” Kelven asked.

  “Down,” replied the Ravenwalker. His tone was quiet and intense. “It’s said that the sort of work Skeeves is doing is best undertaken surrounded by the embrace of the earth. It’s nonsense, but his laboratory will be below ground all the same. He’s always been too superstitious.” He closed his eyes for a moment, sniffing at the air and twisting his lips in disgust. He gestured down the corridor. “This way.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “I stumbled across tracks in the forest.” He shook his head. “Too big for a wolf, or any other creature that has a name. There was a scent too, rank and horrid. I’m following that.” He paused as they approached the end of the corridor, motioning for Kelven to do the same. His voice was little more than a whisper as he pointed to where the corridor split in two directions. “Guards, just to the left. The trail leads past them.”

  Kelven nodded. Together, they rounded the corner with their weapons raised. Two guards stood before an open doorway, arrayed in mismatched armour. The first was dark-skinned, with locks of long, black hair and a pair of swords strapped to his back. The other was taller, and armed with a vicious polearm and a belt of knives. Both had the look of men familiar with violence. Oddly, neither seemed surprised to see Kelven or the Ravenwalker. The taller guard raised his palms in a sign of peace.

  “You’ll get no resistance from us, magus. The old man’s down there.” He gestured toward the blackish opening with one thumb.

  “Waiting for us?”

  The other guard shrugged. “Could be.” So much for sneaking in.

  Frowning, the Ravenwalker glanced sideways at Kelven. “I told you, I'm no good at stealth. No sense in keeping him waiting.” The magus strode confidently toward the door and started down the stairs beyond. Eying the guards for any hint of treachery, Kelven followed.

  The chamber at the foot of the stairs was dark and dank, roughly hewn from the bowels of the hill on which the castle was built. Its walls were all coarse stone and dried clay. The unleveled floor was covered in a thick carpet of dingy wood shavings, while the walls were braced with uneven support beams. An assortment of boards had been hastily erected to form makeshift shelves. These were strewn with books and vials and other implements that Kelven could not begin to recognize. A strange odour filled the room, a blending of piss, damp fur and blood.

  A man stood at the centre of the chamber, waiting for them. He was of indeterminate age, and stripped to the waist. His chest and torso were lean and hairless as his shaven head. A dozen brands shifted in hideous patterns across his skin. His dark eyes were sunken, yellowed and bloodshot, and his thin lips were turned in the twisted mockery of a smile.

  “Obsidian,” he sneered. His voice was thick and smokey. “I knew they’d send you eventually. How fitting, my old friend.”

  “Skeeves,” replied the Ravenwalker, glancing around the laboratory. “What have you done?”

  “What was needed to survive.”

  “There’s no shame in death. It comes to us all, eventually.”

  “No. Not anymore.” The sorcerer laughed, husky and mirthless. “I’ve transcended, Obsidian. They said the wasting would kill me, didn’t they? Ha! I’ve proven them all wrong! Proven you wrong. I’ve survived the unsurvivable.”

  That caught Kelven's attention. Even through the power of his various fortifications, he could still feel the sickness in his lungs, slowly killing him. Could such a thing really be defeated? Does the sorcerer really have that kind of power?

  “But at what cost?” asked the Ravenwalker.

  “Does it matter? I’ve defeated death and become so much more than just a man. But I’d hardly expect you to understand. You always were small-minded—you and your raven.”

  “Shrill has only ever expanded my mind. But what of your own totems, Skeeves? Where is Gaza? Theer? Ralamonn?”

  “Gone. All gone.” The sorcerer's chuckle dripped with madness. “They stood in my way, so I destroyed them.” The Ravenwalker recoiled, his ruined face twisted in horror. “I sent them into oblivion and embraced the true melding. Do you remember our conversations about the nature of power, Obsidian? Would you like to see the truth to it? Come then, little bird. Pit yourself against true melding!”

  The sorcerer’s brands began to shift, snaking along his body with a purplish radiance that billowed around him like steam. His lean muscles grew dense and knotted, rippling beneath his skin as it transformed into a toughened hide. Coarse hair sprouted, thickening into a coat of dark, lupine fur. Kelven watched in horror as the man’s fingers grew twisted and gnarled, the carefully-manicured nails darkening into vicious claws meant for rending flesh. The sneer of his face vanished as his mouth and nose expanded, pushing forward to become a muzzle-like protrusion. Bared teeth twisted into fangs, dripping with slaver. Dark eyes flashed red in the flickering torchlight.

  When the transformation was complete, the creature that stood before them was like something out the nightmares of Kelven’s daughters. Standing a full foot taller than the Ravenwalker, it was neither human nor animal, wolf nor jackal, lion nor rockcat. Instead, it was a fusion of predatory terror.

  “This is power,” it cackled with glee, flexing its clawed hands and hunching low. The Ravenwalker raised his staff, and Kelven found the hunter's sword in his hand.

  “So you've made yourself into a werebeast,” said the magus. Beneath the revulsion, Kelven thought he caught a trace of a deeper sadness.

  “Spare me your self-righteousness,” rumbled the beast. “You’re no saint, Obsidian. Now die!”

  The werebeast rushed forward in a flurry of strength and speed. Its claws struck out at the magus. The Ravenwalker levelled his staff, and an invisible force struck the creature, driving it back off its feet. It crashed into the table, splintering its wooden surface and sending its contents scattering. The impact did nothing to slow it. The werebeast was back on its feet in a heartbeat, renewing its attack. The magus met it with another explosion of force.

  Laughter spilled from the beast’s jaws, deep and sinister. “Your totems’ powers are limited. I already blooded your stag. Which will fail you first? The Raven or the bitch wolf? Perhaps it needn’t matter.” Red eyes turned on Kelven. The thief raised the hunter’s sword. The double-edged blade was longer than the knives he was accustomed to. “Perhaps I will simply destroy your companion instead.”

  The creature launched itself at Kelven, its red eyes fixed on his throat.

  The thief threw himself to one side. The strength of his fortification sent him farther than he expecte
d, but he managed to land gracefully, turning toward the werebeast just in time to see the creature shrug off another concussive blast from the magus’ staff. Snarling, it lumbered toward Kelven with deliberate purpose. The thief gave up ground until he found his back against a wall.

  “Are you afraid, little man?”

  Kelven never had that chance to respond. With a flash of colour, the Ravenwalker's wolf threw itself on the werebeast. Its claws raked at the creature's side. The attack did little damage to the thick hide but provided enough distraction for Kelven to make the maddest decision of his life.

  It might have been the intrinsic need of a man to defend himself, or of a father to purge the world of monsters. Whatever the reason, for the second time in a single week, Kelven found himself doing the only thing he could think to do.

  He attacked, throwing himself at the werebeast with all his fortified strength. His sword thrust forward. The monster twisted away, but not before the blade scored its shoulder, drawing a fresh line of bright, crimson blood. It growled and lashed out with one clawed hand, catching Kelven by the wrist and squeezing so tight that all feeling fled from his fingers. The sword fell to the floor with a muffled thud. The werebeast snarled, its snout so close that Kelven could feel its hot, rancid breath on his face. Turning away, the thief drove one fist up into the creature's jaw. Pain lanced through his knuckles and forearm, but he was rewarded with the sharp crack of breaking bone. The beast howled in pain. Its grip slackened, and Kelven scrambled away, retrieving his weapon as he went.

  When he turned again, the Ravenwalker was there. The magus’ staff hammered into the cut on the werebeast’s side, then smashed into its shattered face. The monster fell back another step, only to find the wolf snapping at its flank. Howling in frustration, the monster turned and caught the smaller animal by the scruff. One massive hand ripped its throat open, spraying blood and gore.

  The Ravenwalker shrieked in agony.

  The werebeast shrieked in glee, turning its attention back to Kelven. Its broken jaw was already knitting itself back together. The creature took a lumbering step forward. Once again, Kelven raised his sword. For one brief moment, they stood measuring each other. Kelven took one deep breath and resigned himself to his fate. He’d been racing toward death for weeks, with Last Wind blowing over his shoulder the entire time. He could hardly be surprised that it had finally caught him.