The Blade Itself (41 page)

One of the men had an ugly squint. “That’s a big purse for a little man,” he said, as he came close.

“Well, er…” murmured Longfoot, creeping behind Logen’s shoulder.

“An awful big load for a little man to carry,” said the other.

“Why not let us help you with it?”

Neither one of them had weapons ready, but by the way their hands were moving Logen knew they had them. There was a third man behind him too, he could sense him moving forwards now. Close. Closer than the other two. If he could deal with that one first, the one behind, his chances might be good. He couldn’t risk looking round, that would spoil the surprise. He’d simply have to hope for the best. As always.

Logen gritted his teeth and flung his elbow backwards. It hit the man behind in the jaw with a heavy crunch, and Logen caught his wrist in his other hand, which was lucky, because he had a knife out and ready. Logen smashed him in the mouth with his elbow again, tearing the blade from his limp fingers as he dropped into the street, head smacking against the dirty cobbles. He whipped round, half expecting to get stabbed in the back, but the other two hadn’t moved too quick. They had knives of their own out, and one had taken a half-step towards him, but he paused when he saw that Logen had the blade up, ready to fight.

It was a meagre kind of a weapon, six inches of rusty iron without even a cross-piece, but it was better than nothing. A lot better. Logen waved it around in the air in front of him, just to make sure that everyone could see it. Felt good. His odds were much improved.

“Right then,” said Logen, “who’s next?”

The other two moved apart, trying to get to either side of him, weighing their knives in their hands, but they didn’t seem in any great rush to come on.

“We can take him!” whispered the squinter, but his friend didn’t look too sure.

“Or, you can have this.” Logen opened up his clenched fist, showing the coins that Longfoot had given him. “And leave us be. This much I can spare.” He swished the knife around a bit more, just to add some weight to his words. “This is what you’re worth to me—this much, no more. What’s it to be?”

The one with the squint spat on the ground. “We can take him!” he hissed again. “You go first!”

“You fucking go!” shouted the other.

“Just take what I’m offering,” said Logen, “then we none of us have to go.”

The one that he’d elbowed groaned and rolled over in the road, and the reminder of his fate seemed to decide them. “Alright, you fucking northern bastard, alright, we’ll take it!”

Logen grinned. He thought about throwing the coins at the one with the squint then stabbing him while he was distracted. That’s what he’d have done in his youth, but he decided against. Why bother? Instead he opened his fingers and tossed the money into the road behind him, moving towards the nearest wall. He and the two thieves circled each other cautiously, each step taking them closer to the coins and him closer to escape. Soon they’d swapped places, and Logen backed away down the street, still holding the knife in front of him. When they were ten paces apart the two men squatted down and began to pick the scattered coins up from the ground.

“I’m still alive,” Logen whispered to himself as he quickened his pace.

That had been lucky, he knew. It’s a fool who thinks that any fight is too small to be the death of him, however tough he is. Lucky that he caught the one behind just right. Lucky that the other two had been slow. But then he’d always been lucky with fights. Lucky at getting out of them alive. Not so lucky with the getting into them. Still, he felt good about this day’s work. Glad he hadn’t killed anybody.

Logen felt a hand clap him on the back, and he span round, knife at the ready.

“Only me!” Brother Longfoot held up his hands. Logen had nearly forgotten the Navigator was there. He must have stayed behind him the whole time, perfectly silent. “Well handled Master Ninefingers, well handled! Truly! I see that you are not without some talents of your own! I am looking forward to travelling with you, I am indeed! The docks are this way!” he shouted, already moving off.

Logen took one last look back at the two men, but they were still grubbing around on the ground, so he threw the knife away and hurried to catch up to Longfoot. “Do you Navigators never fight?”

“Some among us do, oh yes, with empty hands and weapons of all kinds. Most deadly, some of them, but not I. No. That is not my way.”

“Never?”

“Never. My skills lie elsewhere.”

“I would have thought your travels would bring you across many dangers.”

“They do,” said Longfoot brightly, “they do indeed. That is when my remarkable talent for hiding is at its most useful.”

Her Kind Fight Everything

Night. Cold. The salt wind was keen on the hilltop, and Ferro’s clothes were thin and ragged. She hugged her arms and hunched up her shoulders, staring sourly down towards the sea. Dagoska was a cloud of pinprick lights in the distance, huddled around the steep rock between the great, curving bay and the glistening ocean. Her eyes could make out the vague, tiny shapes of walls and towers, black against the dark sky, and the thin neck of dry earth that joined the city to the land. An island, almost. Between them and Dagoska there were fires. Camps around the roads. Many camps.

“Dagoska,” whispered Yulwei, perched on a rock beside her. “A little splinter of the Union, stuck into Gurkhul like a thorn. A thorn in the Emperor’s pride.”

“Huh,” grunted Ferro, hunching her shoulders still further.

“The city is watched. Many soldiers. More than ever. It might be difficult to deceive so many.”

“Perhaps we should go back,” she muttered hopefully.

The old man ignored her. “
They
are here as well. More than one.”

“Eaters?”

“I must go closer. Find a way in. Wait here for me.” He paused, waiting for her to reply. “You will wait?”

“Alright!” she hissed, “alright, I’ll wait!”

Yulwei slipped off his rock and away down the slope, padding across the soft earth, almost invisible in the inky blackness. When the sound of his jingling bangles had faded into the night, she turned away from the city, took a deep breath, and scurried down the slope southwards, back into Gurkhul.

Now Ferro could run. Fast as the wind, hours at a stretch. She’d spent a lot of time running. When she made it to the base of the hill she ran, feet flying across the open ground, breath coming quick and fierce. She heard water beyond, slid down a bank and splashed into the shallows of a slow moving river. She floundered on, knee-deep in the cold water.

Let the old bastard track me through this, she thought.

After a while she made a bundle of her weapons and held them above her head as she swam across, forcing against the current with one arm. She flapped out on the other side and ran on along the bank, wiping the water from her dripping face.

Time passed slowly and light began to creep into the sky. Morning was coming. The river babbled beside her, her sandals beating out a rapid rhythm in the stubbly grass. She left the river behind, running on across the flat landscape, turning now from black to grey. A clump of scrubby trees loomed up.

She crashed between the trunks and slithered down into the bushes, her breath rasping. She shivered in the half-light, heart pounding in her chest. It was silent beyond the trees. Good. She reached inside her clothes and pulled out some bread and a strip of meat, soggy from the swim but still edible. She smiled. She had been keeping half of everything that Yulwei gave her for the last few days.

“Stupid old bastard,” she chuckled to herself between choking mouthfuls, “thought he could get the better of Ferro Maljinn, did he?”

Damn she was thirsty. No help for that now, she could find water later. She was tired though, very tired. Even Ferro got tired. She would rest here for a moment, just a moment. Get the strength back in the legs, then on, on to… she twitched, annoyed. She could think about the where later. Wherever was best for vengeance. Yes.

She crawled through the bushes, sat back against one of the trees. Her eyes closed slowly, by themselves. Just rest for a moment now. Vengeance later.

“Stupid old bastard,” she muttered. Her head dropped sideways.

“Brother!”

Ferro woke with a start, head knocking against the tree. It was light, too light. Another bright, hot day. How long had she been sleeping? “Brother!” A woman’s voice, not far off. “Where are you?”

“Over here!” Ferro froze, every muscle tensing. A man’s voice, deep and strong. And close. She heard horse’s hooves, moving slowly, several horses, and near.

“What are you doing, brother?”

“She’s close!” shouted the man again. Ferro’s throat tightened. “I can smell her!” Ferro felt in the bushes for her weapons, shoved the sword and the knife through her belt, tucked the other knife up her one, torn sleeve. “I can taste her, sister! She’s very close!”

“But where?” The woman’s voice drew nearer. “Do you think she can hear us?”

“Perhaps she can!” laughed the man. “Are you there, Maljinn?” She threw her quiver over her shoulder and snatched up her bow. “We are waiting…” he sang, getting closer still, just beyond the trees now. “Come out, Maljinn, come out and greet us…”

She bolted away, crashing through the bushes, sprinting across the open ground with desperate speed.

“There she is!” cried the woman from behind. “Look at her go!”

“Get her, then!” shouted the man.

The scrubby grassland stretched away unbroken before her. Nowhere to run to. She span around with a snarl, nocking an arrow to her bow. Four horsemen were spurring towards her, Gurkish soldiers, sun glinting on their tall helmets and the cruel heads of their spears. Behind them, further back, were two other riders: a man and a woman. “Stop! In the name of the Emperor!” one of the horsemen shouted.

“Fuck your Emperor!” Her arrow caught the first of the soldiers through his neck and he tumbled backwards from the saddle with a shocked gurgle, his spear flying out of his hand.

“Good shot!” cried the woman. The second rider took an arrow in his chest. His breastplate slowed it, but it still went deep enough to kill. He screamed, dropping his sword in the grass, clutching at the shaft, rolling in the saddle.

The third never even made a sound. He got one in the mouth, at no more than ten strides away. The point went right through his skull and knocked his helmet off, but by then the fourth was on her. She threw the bow to the ground and rolled away as the soldier thrust at her with his spear, then she pulled the sword from her belt, spitting on the grass.

“Alive!” shouted the woman, nudging her horse lazily forwards. “We need her alive!”

The soldier turned his snorting mount and urged it cautiously towards Ferro. He was a big man, with a thick growth of dark stubble on his jaw. “I hope you’ve made your peace with God, girl,” he said.

“Fuck your God!” She scuttled out of the way, dodging, moving, staying close to the ground. The soldier jabbed at her with his spear, keeping her at a distance, his horse’s hooves pawing at the ground, kicking dust in Ferro’s face.

“Poke her!” she heard the woman shouting behind her.

“Yes, poke her!” cried her brother through his giggling. “But not too hard! We want her alive!” The soldier snarled as he spurred his horse forward. Ferro ducked and scrambled in front of its kicking legs. The spear point jabbed, cutting a gash in her arm. She swung the sword with all her strength.

The curved blade found the gap between the plates of the soldier’s armour, took his leg off just below the knee and opened a huge wound in the horse’s side. Man and beast screamed together, fell together to the ground. Dark blood bubbled out across the dirt.

“She got him!” The woman sounded mildly disappointed.

“Up, man!” laughed her brother, “up and at her! There’s still a chance!” The soldier thrashed on the ground. Ferro’s sword hacked into his face, putting a sharp end to his screams. Nearby the second rider was still in his saddle, face twisted, gasping his last breaths, hand clutched around the bloody shaft of her arrow. His horse put its head down and started nibbling at the dry grass by its hooves.

“That’s all of them,” said the woman.

“I know.” Her brother sighed deep. “Must one do everything oneself?”

Ferro glanced up at them as she pushed the bloody sword back through her belt. They were sitting carelessly on their horses not far off, the sun bright behind them, smiles on their cruel, handsome faces. They were dressed like lords, silk flapping round them in the breeze, heavy with jewellery, but neither one was armed. Ferro scrambled for her bow.

“Be careful, brother,” said the woman, examining her fingernails. “She fights well.”

“Like a devil! But she is no match for me, sister, have no fear.” He sprang down from his saddle. “So then, Maljinn, shall we…”

The arrow stuck him through the chest, deep through, with a hollow thud.

“…begin?” The shaft quivered, its point glittering behind him, dry and bloodless. He began to walk towards her. Her next arrow caught him through the shoulder, but he only came on faster, breaking into a run, bounding forward with enormous strides. She dropped the bow, fingers fumbling for the grip of her sword. Too slow. His outstretched arm caught her across the chest with terrible force, slamming her into the earth.

“Oh, well done, brother!” The woman clapped her hands with delight. “Well done!”

Ferro rolled coughing in the dust. She saw the man watching her as she struggled to her feet, the sword clutched in both hands. She swung it at him, a great overhead arc. It bit deep into the earth. Somehow he had already danced aside. A foot came out of nowhere and sank into her stomach. She doubled over, powerless, the air driven from her body. Her fingers twitched, the sword was left stuck in the ground, her knees wobbled.

“And now…” Something crunched into her nose. Her legs buckled and the ground hit her hard in the back. She rolled groggily to her knees, the world turning over around her. There was blood on her face. She blinked and shook her head, trying to stop the world from spinning. The man was moving towards her, tipping, blurry. He jerked her arrow out of his chest and tossed it away. There was no blood, just a little dust. Just dust, curling in the air.

An Eater. He had to be.

Ferro stumbled up, pulling the knife from her belt. She thrust at him, missed, thrust again, missed again. Her head was swimming. She screamed, slashing at him with all her might.

He caught her wrist in his hand. Their faces were less than a foot apart. His skin was perfect, smooth, like dark glass. He looked young, almost like a child, but his eyes were old. Hard eyes. He watched her—curious, amused, like a boy who found an interesting beetle. “She doesn’t give up, does she, sister?”

“Very fierce! The Prophet will be delighted with her!”

The man sniffed at Ferro and wrinkled his nose. “Ugh. She’d better be washed first.”

She butted him in the face. His head snapped back but he only giggled. He caught her round the throat with his free hand, shoved her out to arm’s length. She clawed at his face but his arm was too long, she couldn’t reach. He was prising her fingers from the handle of the knife. His grip was iron around her neck. She couldn’t breathe. She bared her teeth, struggling, snarling, thrashing. All in vain.

“Alive, brother! We want her alive!”

“Alive,” murmured the man, “but not unharmed.”

The woman giggled. Ferro’s feet left the ground, kicking at the air. She felt one of her fingers snap and the knife dropped to the grass. The hand gripped tighter round her neck, and she tore at it with broken nails. All in vain. The bright world began to turn dark.

Ferro heard the woman laughing, far away. A face swam out of the darkness, a hand stroked Ferro’s cheek. The fingers were soft, warm, gentle.

“Be still, child,” whispered the woman. Her eyes were dark and deep. Ferro could feel her breath, hot and fragrant on her face. “You are hurt, you must rest. Be still now… sleep.” Ferro’s legs were heavy as lead. She kicked weakly, one last time, then her body sagged. Her heart beat slow…

“Rest now.” Ferro’s eyelids began to droop, the woman’s beautiful face grew blurred.

“Sleep.” Ferro bit down hard on her tongue, and her mouth turned salty.

“Be still.” Ferro spat blood in the woman’s face.

“Gah!” she shouted in disgust, wiping blood from her eyes. “She fights me!”

“Her kind fight everything,” came the man’s voice, just behind Ferro’s ear.

“Now listen to me, whore!” hissed the woman, clutching Ferro’s jaw with steely fingers and yanking her face this way and that. “You are coming with us! With us! One way or another! You hear me?”

“She goes nowhere.” Another voice, deep and mellow. It seemed familiar. Ferro blinked, shook her head groggily. The woman had turned, looking at an old man, not far away. Yulwei. His bangles jingled as he padded softly across the grass. “Are you alive, Ferro?”

“Gugh,” she croaked.

The woman sneered at Yulwei. “Who are you, old bastard?”

Yulwei sighed. “I am an old bastard.”

“Get you gone, dog!” shouted the man. “We come from the Prophet. From Khalul himself!”

“And she comes with us!”

Yulwei looked sad. “I cannot change your minds?”

They laughed together. “Fool!” cried the man. “Our minds never change!” He let go of one of Ferro’s arms, took a wary step forwards, dragging her with him.

“A shame,” said Yulwei, shaking his head. “I would have had you carry my respects to Khalul.”

“The Prophet does not walk with the likes of you, beggar!”

“I might surprise you. We knew each other well, long ago.”

“I will give our master your respects then,” jeered the woman, “with the news of your recent death!” Ferro twisted her wrist, felt the knife drop into her palm.