The mattress!

Maddened by a growing sense of doom, he used his teeth to rend the sheet beneath him, then attacked the mattress cover itself. By the grace of Corij the ticking was old and tore readily under his frenzied assault. Inside, the stuffing of horsehair and wood shavings was crumbling from age. As he worked his way through, the crushing barrier on top of him clung to his back, pressing him deeper into the torn mattress.

Clawing his way through several spans of stuffing, he at last reach the slatted bottom of the bed. Blood roared in his ears. Sweat-or was it blood?-dripped from his elbows and fingertips. He slammed his fist into the pine slats again and again until they broke apart. With a thump, he fell through to the dusty floor.

Cool air swirled around him, and he inhaled greedily. His head cleared after a dozen breaths.

He crawled to the far side of the bed and peered out. His room was dark and silent. He groped until he felt his scabbard. Freeing it from the bedpost, he pulled it to himself. It was difficult to draw the saber while lying on his belly, but he managed.

Feeling better able to meet whatever might come, Tol rolled out from under the bed and sprang to his feet, blade held ready.

There was no stealthy, pillow-wielding assassin. The room was empty, but the door was open and the great carpet from the corridor outside was draped across the bed. Woven from three layers of wool and jute, the huge carpet was very heavy, easily capable of suffocating a sleeping man. Who had put it over him?

Tol circled around the end of the bed, intending to rouse the house to search for an intruder. As he passed the foot of the bed, the carpet suddenly shifted, rolling up and tripping him. He stumbled forward, and great folds of wine-colored wool flung themselves over him. The carpet was moving like a living thing!

He thrust his saber at it. The carpet undulated, rolling him over and over, trying to smother him in its folds. With both hands on his sword hilt, he impaled the wild rug. It flapped and shivered, hut he sawed at the tough weave, rending a considerable hole.

The carpet bunched itself beneath him, rose up, and hurled him off. He flew through the air and hit the far wall with a crash. His sword remained buried in the carpet.

Shaking off the impact, Tol got to his knees in time to see the enormous rug dragging more of its bulk through the door. It filled his room, the intricate pattern of gold circles and squares looming higher and higher. Why wasn’t the nullstone affecting the ensorcelled rug?

Tol brushed a hand over the hip of his smallclothes. With wide-eyed alarm, he felt more carefully. The Irda artifact was not in its pocket.

He turned the material over with frantic fingers. The threads had pulled loose, making a hole in the pocket. The nullstone had dropped out, somewhere.

Fear sizzled through Tol. Several hundredweight of living, murderous carpet might have seemed ridiculous had not the thing’s lethal intent been so clear.

He climbed over upturned furniture and made his way toward the window. The drop was straight to the street below. If it came to it, he would jump and risk a broken leg over being suffocated by an enchanted rug.

The sound of splintering wood drew his eyes to the door. So much carpet was trying to force its way in that the doorframe had cracked. The carpet wrapped its folds around the bedposts, snapping the polished wood like twigs.

Voices from the hall heralded the arrival of the Dom-shu sisters.

“Get back!” Tol cried. “The carpet’s been hexed! It’s alive!”

Miya drew too near and the rug slapped her in the chest, throwing her to the bare stone floor of the corridor. She bounced up, nose bleeding, eyes wide.

Kiya, still slowed by her injury, ordered her sister to fetch Egrin. As Miya raced away, Kiya sized up the situation.

Tol was perched on a side table, clinging to a sconce as the carpet coiled beneath him like a monstrous snake. Another few folds of height and it would rise up and crush him against the wall.

Kiya disappeared briefly then returned with a poleaxe from one of the displays in the hall. Not bothering to chop at the rug, she used the sharp tip to spike several of its folds to the floor. The rug strained against the impediment but was prevented from reaching Tol.

“Good!” Tol shouted. “Get more spears-I don’t think one will hold it!”

The carpet tugged and squirmed, working the poleaxe back and forth. By the time Kiya reappeared with an armload of ancient weapons, the carpet was almost free again.

Kiya hurled a spear toward Tol. It stuck, quivering, in the wall beside him. He worked it free and jammed it hard into the carpet writhing at his feet. Kiya added three more poleaxes.

“Look out!” Tol cried.

The rug surged toward the door. Like a purple-red tidal wave, the heavy fabric hit the cluster of pole arms restraining it, snapping their shafts.

A wall of rug knocked Kiya flat. When the carpet began flowing over her, she tried to struggle free, but her bad knee betrayed her. Wool covered her face.

“No!” Tol shouted.

Heedless of danger, he leaped from the table onto the rippling rug. It surged and twisted, trying to engulf him. He punched and kicked his way across the room, but the carpet finally managed to send him sprawling on hands and knees.

A broken bedpost lay nearby and he grabbed it. Using it like a quarterstaff, he fended off humps of carpet and reached Kiya at last.

Dropping the post, Tol clawed at the thick wool with his bare hands. He cleared Kiya’s face but could not free her. Even bringing to bear all his considerable strength, he could do no more than hold the quivering fabric away from her head.

“Behind you!” Kiya sputtered. At Tol’s back, the carpet was gathering itself high to crush them both.

Egrin, Miya, and the men of the marshal’s retinue came thundering down the hall. When they saw the battle was not with assassins or thieves but with an ordinary hall carpet, the men halted and stared, transfixed.

“Sister! Help!”

Kiya’s cry brought Miya forward, shoving men left and right. She snatched the lamp carried by the nearest Ergothian and hurled it over Tol’s head. The oil spilled on the carpet and ignited. The carpet spasmed visibly Egrin followed suit with his own lamp, and the others did likewise. Soon, a smoky fire was burning on the thrashing carpet. The terrible pressure on Tol and Kiya slackened as the rug surged first to one wall then the other, blindly seeking escape from the flames. When it found the window, it smashed through the shutters and poured itself out. Paces of bulky fabric hissed over the sill to land with a loud crash in the street below.

Rescuers and rescued sorted themselves out. Egrin pulled Tol to his feet, and they went immediately to Kiya, who was sitting up with her sister’s help.

“Filthy rug!” Kiya said, coughing and spitting dirt. “Didn’t those dwarves ever beat it?”

Miya snorted. “Would you?”

They went to the broken window. The hall carpet, twenty paces long and eight wide, lay in a mound on the pavement, burning fitfully. Now and then an edge twitched feebly. The stench of burning wool was sickening.

Egrin sent his men to search the villa for further menaces. Kiya put a hand on Tol’s shoulder and squeezed.

“Thank you,” she said simply. Weaponless, he’d stormed across the room to save her. Tol patted her long, rawboned hand.

When he was alone again, Tol immediately searched for the millstone. To his vast relief, he found the precious artifact in his discarded clothing. It was undamaged. It must have fallen out of his pocket while he was undressing.

A simple accident, yet it had very nearly led to more deaths.

Tol lit a candle. By its meager light, he got to work with needle and thread to repair the worn pocket.