Blast. That hook had not come cheap. Yet it could be replaced. He selected a much stronger tool, a torsion wrench, and slipped it into the lock. The teeth bit at it but Malden jerked it away in time—then shoved it in past the teeth when they opened up again. They closed on the iron tool and worried at it, but lacked the strength to chew right through it.

Good enough. He fitted a stout rake inside the lock and felt for tumblers. They were there, just beyond the teeth, but they felt wrong. Less like the precisely crafted cylinders he was used to, and more like the ribbed flesh on the roof of a dog’s mouth. Malden pushed down his squeamishness and tickled the pins until they started to slide back. He put some tension on the wrench and it started to turn.

Instantly the teeth began to gnash and chew at his tools with great fervor. A thin trickle of drool leaked from the lock and spilled down the outer surface of the door. Malden grimaced and rubbed the rake back and forth across the tumblers. It was no time for delicate work. One by one the tumblers slid back and the wrench turned all the way around. The dead bolt slammed open and the door creaked slightly as it opened an inch or two. Malden felt the pressure on his wrench and rake slacken, and he chanced another look into the lock. There were no teeth in there anymore—just a simple mechanical lock, something any dwarf could make in an afternoon.

Yet when he inspected his tools, he saw dents and scratches all over them. The teeth had been real. Now they were not. He wrapped his tools back up and stepped into the hall of traps beyond, having no time to consider the nature of magic or the dubious humor of those who practiced it.

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Gurrh dropped to one knee. The iron fencepost he’d been wielding clanged on the ground as he clutched at his left eye with both furry hands. The captain of the guards shouted an order and his troops moved back, giving the archer room to draw a perfect bead on the ogre’s face.

The archer held his arrow and did not fire.

Four of the guards rushed to take position around Croy, boxing him neatly. They made no immediate move to attack, but kept their weapons up and ready. As soon as the captain gave the order they could lunge forward in concert and skewer Croy as neatly as a bird on a spit.

It seemed the captain wanted to parley first.

In some ways that was a bad sign. It meant the captain—or more likely Bikker—knew of Croy’s reputation, and that he’d survived against far greater odds up at the palace. Of course, then he’d had the option of running away. That wasn’t possible here.