Crypt of the Moaning Diamond (28 page)

“How fast can you run?” Sanval asked it politely. Its yellow

, eyes blinked. “That fast, my friend?” Sanval glanced down at his sword and knew that pulling it out of its leather scabbard would be the same as handing it to the monster for lunch. He left his sword where it was.

The yellow eyes rolled upward to stare at the top of Sanval’s head, and Sanval could imagine the thing thinking, “Aaah, a beautifully burnished helmet, how delicious!” Oddly, in his imagination, the creature spoke in the exact fussy tones of a former tutor who used to warn him about the dangers of the Vast and the felly of leaving an ordered life lived under the silver tiles of his district.

He tried to think of a plan, because surely a noble of Procampur, even one who had not traveled nearly as much as he wished, should be able to outwit a bug-brained monster. While Sanval considered his options, the monster’s antennae made another attack. It snapped toward his helmet, which Sanval had expected. He pivoted and dived away. The antennae hit his elbow, slithered across the metal elbow guard, then whipped back. Sanval reached across with his opposite gloved hand and touched his elbow just in time to feel the guard crumble, crack, and fall to the floor in a pile of rusting metal. The monster lurched forward at surprising speed.

Sanval dashed past it to the opposite wall. The monster ignored him, arching its curved back and going at the rusting pieces on the floor. It bent its legs so that the joints stuck out, and hunched itself over the rusting metal and lowered its ugly little mouth. The scrunch scrunch of Sanval’s elbow guard being devoured like a hard-crusted loaf was more than annoying.

What he needed was a wooden pole, he thought, and scanned the tunnel. But there was nothing, not a crossbeam, not a door that could be dismantled, nothing. And the monster effectively blocked the staircase. If he dashed down the corridor, would the thing follow? Would Archlis hear him coming?

What if he ran into one of the magelord’s firespells? Sanval glanced down at his scorched boot—his manservant would be in tears when he saw what had happened earlier. Sanval s gleaming boots were the envy of the camp, and his manservant Godolfin made a fair amount taking bribes for his polish recipe (of course, Sanval paid him even more to keep the true recipe off the feet of his rivals). So, rust or fire? Which would be worse? Both would be hard on the outfit that he had left.

“I was trained to meet worthy adversaries,” he complained, “fighters with swords. Even a bugbear has a sword. Or at least a glaive.” He glanced down at the front of his chest. “Just as well I gave Osteroric my breastplate. I suppose if you had it to rust off me, you’d keep right on chewing through my body.”

The monster tilted its head and looked up at Sanval.

“Please forget that I suggested such a thing,” he muttered. He looked again at the crystals studding the wall. Some were as big as a man’s head. He reached up and grasped the one that protruded out the most. By swinging his entire weight off the crystal, he was able to force it out of the wall. He hefted it in one hand, then jumped back as an antennae whipped toward him. The gem was heavy for its size. Sanval clutched it, bent his arm back, and aimed the stone at the monster. It bounced off the lumpy back but certainly did no damage. The monster eyed him, then took a step closer.

“Very well, you disliked that but took no harm from it. Another approach is needed here,” Sanval said. Was there a weapon he could put together from his gear that did not contain metal? He glanced at his arms, with metal shields still in place on one shoulder and elbow. His gauntlets featured metal cuffs and guards. His body armor lacked the breastplate, but there was still a fair collection of chain mail and smaller plates, with a few bits of banded armor protecting his thighs and knees. All good for nothing except a meal for the monster.

, And last, there were his beautiful leather boots. He had never liked armored footwear, finding it impossibly clumsy; also when he had tried it, he had been rewarded with blisters. Now, as he considered ways to destroy the creature, he was doubly glad that he had chosen leather boots. Walking out of these ruins in his stockings would be less than dignified.

The monster shot out its antennae again, and Sanval dodged again, but how long could he keep this up? Furious at the unfairness of a beast that would not fight with proper weapons, the Procampur ripped off one gauntlet and tossed it into a far corner. The creature swung around, caught it with an antennae, rusted it on impact, and—like any other wild animal—hunched over the nice new addition to its meal.

With the monster busy with its lunch, Sanval pulled off a shiny leather boot. He pried a couple of fist-sized crystals out of the wall, dropped them in, and grabbed another.

The beast made a disgusting gulping noise and swung toward him. Sanval unbuckled his other elbow guard and tossed it in a high arch. The creature raised its head to watch, tracking the guard’s path until it clattered into the far corner. Slither, snap, into rust, crunch, crunch.

“No sense of a fair fight, and no table manners, either,” Sanval complained as he grabbed up handfuls of smaller stones and ditt dislodged by his digging of the crystals. He jammed everything into his boot. With foreboding, he pulled off his remaining gauntlet and tucked it into his belt. He had to trust that the creature went for metal before attacking flesh. But what if that were wrong?

By the time the creature had eaten his elbow guard, Sanval was ready. He had undone the remaining shoulder guard and held it in his hand. As the bug-head swung toward him, Sanval did another arched toss, and the bug-head did another follow-it-with-the-eyes turn. The guard crashed into the corner and

was rust almost before it landed—a latge pile of rust: a feast for the beast. The rust monster curved its humped back, crouched as close to the floor as possible, and let its wicked tail sag as it chomped away.

The back was leathery, the tail was hard-as-shell plates, which only left the head and legs. Clutching his boot closed by its cuff, Sanval leaped forward and landed on his stocking-clad foot. The silk of his stocking made his landing a little slippety, but he managed to stay upright. Sanval swung the stone-filled boot down on top of the creatures head while kicking his booted foot at a jutting joint of its back leg. The joint cracked. The monster’s head swiveled so that the bug’s eyes stared up at him. Sanval saw an antennae quiver, ducked, and was hit by the other one. It slapped across his banded shin guard. Rust flew. He didn’t bothet to watch it crumble; he could feel the weight dropping away. He stomped down on the beast’s front leg with all his weight and held fast while bending over the monster to beat on its head with the stone-filled boot.

Although pinned to the floor by his weight, the creature flipped its head to glare up at Sanval. Even as he brought the boot down toward its face, an antennae slithered up, way up, straight to the brim of his beautiful helmet. That helmet had been carefully designed for him. It carried family crests as well as military insignias in its elaborate, etched ornamentation, and he loved it almost as much as he loved his sword. He did not feel the tap, but he felt the disintegration. With the helmet pressed atound his ears, he could hear the fust eat through—a sound much like the monster’s chomping, crunch, crunch— and the rattle of falling pieces.

Sanval thought of himself as a rational man, possessed of self-control as well as courtesy, but even as he tried to remember this he heard himself screaming, “Do you know how much my armor cost? And how long I had to wait to get a perfect fit? And

how much time it takes poor Godolfin to polish each piece? And how much I have to pay him to do that?”

With each scream he beat at the monster’s head, hitting its eyes until they rolled shut, smacking at the antennae until they shriveled and curled away from him, and finally catching a soft spot between the skull and the first protective plate at the top of its spine. He heard something crack, and the beast gave a horrible gurgle. Sanval continued whacking away until the rust monster slid flat to the floor, its legs stretched out, its tail twitching but unable to lift the fanned tip of spikes. The antennae collapsed, their tips touching the wall in front of the monster’s head, then sliding slowly down the stones until they, too, were stretched lifeless across the floor.

“Very dramatic. You died with style,” Sanval said to the carcass, trying to regain his self-control. He stepped away from the beast and looked down at it. It was not the sort of battle to go home and brag about—not like besting a dragon or a famous ore warrior. The creature might have been destructive to his gear, yes, but dead it simply looked pathetic.

Shaking his head at the pile of rusted armor under the monster, Sanval assessed his remaining equipment. He emptied the crystals and stones from his boot, pounded it to knock loose any small bits, then pulled the tail of his silk undershirt out at his waist, and used it to try to rub his boot clean. Would his boots ever be bright again? Could he even ask Godolfin to polish them? And wasn’t that the way it always went—he had used the boot that was not scorched across the toe. Now it, too, was thoroughly scuffed from beating it against the monster.

At least he had been wearing a linen shirt, padded vest, and leather pants under his armor. He shuddered to think what Ivy would have said if he had been left just standing in his silk underwear. She probably would have made up some song that would never, ever die in the red-roof quarter.

Sanval pulled on his leather boot, then brushed stone dust from what little was left of his armor. He finger-combed his dark curls, brushing back damp tendrils from his forehead. He looked in dismay at his hands, now covered with stone dust and rust. Deciding that was the best he could do, he started to march on down the tunnel.

And stopped and hopped and cursed as he pulled off his boot again. He muttered words that he would never say if anyone else were present. He had missed a very sharp bit of stone when he had shaken out his boot.

With his boot and his dignity restored, Sanval paused and listened. He could not hear the bugbears arguing. Had they gotten too far ahead? As quickly and as quietly as he could, Sanval hurried down the corridor. At least he knew that his sword would work just fine against bugbears. As for Archlis, if he put up any resistance, well, Sanval would just brain him with his own Ankh. In his present murderous mood, a full-frontal attack seemed like the most sensible plan that he had ever had.

Ivy emerged from the staircase and blinked as she went from the darkness of the shadowy stair into the glowing corridor.

Behind her, Mumchance let out that soft half-sigh, half-whistle that can only mean one thing coming from a dwarf—that there was a fortune in raw gems surrounding them. He set down his sputtering lantern to better examine the strange corridor where they found themselves. Obviously others had come before them, as various crystals had been pried loose from the walls and littered the floor.

“Oooh, that is so ugly!” Gunderal squealed. The dainty wizard had just tripped over a large dead creature, sprawled over a rusty pile of armor.

“We better hurry, Ivy,” said Mumchance. “The ground is getting unstable here.”

“How do you know that?”

The dwarf pointed at the dead monster. A number of large crystals and smaller stones were scattered around the body. “Those must have fallen out of the wall and brained the creature while it was eating,” said the dwarf.

“Lucky for us. One less thing for us to fight,” said Zuzzata.

“Hey, doesn’t that look like Procampur armor?”

“It’s too rusty,” said Gunderal. “Can you imagine anyone from Procampur letting their armor get into such a state!”

“Let’s move,” commanded Ivy. “That creature may have had friends, and we don’t need any more trouble. Let’s find Kid and get out of here.”

“And what about Sanval?” Gunderal hopped neatly over the pile of rusted armor and gave Ivy a teasing look.

“Oh, him too.”

“So there is still treasure in the ruins of Tsurlagol,” said Mumchance, still checking the crystals studding the wall as he walked besides Ivy.

“Apparently. Funny that nobody ever looted this part.”

“I think we are in the oldest bit,” said Mumchance. “The most buried bit.”

“What do you mean?” Ivy asked, picking her way carefully along the corridor. Besides the gems studding the walls and ceiling, more were poking up through the floor. It made the way rough, and tripping was a distinct possibility. Worse yet, there weren’t enough clear flat bits to show any good tracks. Kid might have been able to see something, but Ivy didn’t have his clever eyes and cleverer nose.

“Look at these tunnels, straight, narrow, and slanting down. This bit isn’t some part of the city that sunk below ground. Someone chiseled this bit out of solid stone.”

“Why?”

“Well, if they had bothered to take the rocks out of the walls, I would have said it was a mine shaft. But, as it is, and seeing what is in front of us, I think this is a tomb shaft,” Mumchance said, halting before a pair of golden doors, emblazoned with the type of funeral scenes that they had seen earlier in the old city bath and in the ossuary. Only these scenes were much more finely wrought and studded with colored gems.

Above the funeral procession, the walls of a long-lost Tsurlagol tumbled down before a solitary figure with upraised arms. Again, the pictures showed a fantastic gem clutched in the man’s hand, radiating out lines indicating some type of magical force. And above that were the runes for earth, sky, water, and emptiness that had decorated the floor of that odd trapped room.Td bet that this was the first time they made those pictures,” said Mumchance, looking up at the doors, “and all the others in the ruins were just copies—what people remembered about these pictures.”

“How about warnings?” suggested Ivy, still staring at the huge doors. She had never seen that much gold in one place. One door could probably buy an entire mansion in Procampur.

“Could be,” said Mumchance, who also looked a little stunned by the sheer amount of gold that somebody had thought made an excellent door.