The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(84)

The golem pushed in farther, and Royce dropped the hammer and sprinted for the stairs. The extra weight would only slow him down, and speed was what he needed now. He took the steps three at a time. Four flights up, he glanced back.

Mercator remained in the middle of the main room next to a statue whose plaque read GLENMORGAN THE GREAT. The gargoyle had opened the hole to the size of a window, and it was pulling its body through, emerging like some hideous insect splitting a pupa sac.

“Villar!” Mercator shouted. She had both hands up, palms out. “Stop! You don’t have to do this. I’ve talked to the duchess. She’s on our side and wants to help.”

The creature appeared to be listening, or maybe it was merely having trouble getting through the ragged opening it had made. The bronze had left deep scratches across its stony skin.

“I know you want your war, Villar. You think it’s the only way, but it isn’t. Genny can get the duke to change the laws, and they will force the guilds to change their rules. The duchess was already working on it. The very night you kidnapped her she was on her way back from . . .” Mercator stopped. “Oh, my Lord Ferrol.” She staggered as if from a blow. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew all along that she was working on a solution. That’s why you did it. You wanted to stop her. You needed to stop her.”

The gargoyle cleared the door. Using its feet and the knuckles of its hands, the thing scrambled monkey-like across the room. It slowed down as it neared her.

Mercator shook her head in disbelief. “Villar, how could you?”

The golem hesitated for a moment, and Royce thought she had a chance, then the thing sank both sets of claws into her body. Royce was no stranger to violence. He’d seen—he’d performed—brutalities that many would label gruesome, even sick. He was as used to bloodletting as a butcher, and yet what he witnessed in that artifact-filled chamber unsettled him. It didn’t so much vivisect Mercator as tear her open like a cloth bag with poor stitching. Royce heard muscles shred and her bones make a greenwood-splinter sound. The Calian mir whom Royce had only begun to know, and thought he might like, died in an explosion of blood that splattered the statue of Glenmorgan and stained the perfect marble floor.

The gargoyle showed fangs and pointed teeth, grinning its delight. Then, as tears of blood ran down stone skin, that grotesque monkey-face tilted up. No more encouragement was required. Royce resumed his rapid climb.

The window on the top floor was his goal, his exit, the broken one Villar had shattered the night before.

Reaching the top floor, Royce once more spotted the suit of armor standing against the wall, still holding its long spear. Behind him, the gargoyle was climbing the steps. Royce listened to the crack of stone on marble as if someone were clapping rocks together.

Glass from the window still lay on the floor. Outside was the wall, the leap to the cathedral, and a trip across rooftops that Royce had made once already. Except this time, he would be the prey, the one who would slide down slate shingles and fall into the river. Maybe he, too, would survive. No . . . that sort of thing happens to other people, not me. He wasn’t Villar, and he wasn’t competing with a mir. With Royce’s luck, the thing would embrace him in a bear hug, they’d hit the river, and he’d be dragged to the bottom.

… supposed to retain the characteristics of the material they were made from.

Remembering what had happened to the bust that Mercator had knocked off its pedestal, he grabbed the spear. Jerking it free of the armor, he positioned himself near the balcony’s railing. Hope this works, he thought even though he suspected it wouldn’t.

I’ll still have the window, he consoled himself. If I survive that long.

Royce held the spear low, not in front, not braced against himself, just at his side. He didn’t want to slam the beast head-on. Royce was certain if he tried that, the gargoyle would splinter the spear—or more likely drive it from his hands. He didn’t want to stab the thing. He wanted to do what Hadrian had once achieved when facing an indestructible foe. Worked once, might work again. But theory and reality were often distant relatives. After seeing what the golem had done to Mercator, Royce was less than confident. Watching a person being torn apart had that effect.

I don’t have Hadrian’s luck.

The gargoyle’s head rose above the steps as it climbed. Its wings spread wide like the hood of a snake before a strike. It spotted Royce, and its eyes widened, the mouth displaying more teeth. Stone teeth, stone face: Every inch of it was craggy and coarse and covered in rivulets of blood. The creature broke into a charge.

The spear didn’t give the monster the slightest pause. It didn’t try to dodge, didn’t shift or slow. The gargoyle appeared bemused, even joyful. Royce couldn’t have had a more accommodating enemy, and he imagined the golem felt the same way. As they came together, Royce planted his rear leg and held tight to the pole, then as they collided, he gave ground to prevent the gargoyle from jarring the spear from his hands. The impact was nonetheless powerful, and the tip broke. Royce fell back, dodging to one side while pushing against the stone beast, acting as a lever instead of an impediment. The golem’s course altered, only two feet to one side, but it was enough.

Shoved off balance, all its weight slammed into the balcony’s railing. A man would have hit the balustrade and slid or bounced off.

… supposed to retain the characteristics of the material they were made from. It may have wings, but stone can’t fly.