Joe Abercrombie - The Blade Itself

“Don’t worry about that, Sand!” His mother’s voice was half soothing, half impatient. “Where is the Seed?”

Glokta frowned over as he pushed his shirt in. “I’ve no time for this nonsense, mother! Why do you always think you know what’s best for me?” He cast around him for his sword, but couldn’t see it. “We’re at war, you know!”

“We are indeed.” The Colonel looked up, surprised. It was the voice of Arch Lector Sult. “Two wars. One fought with fire and steel, and another one beneath—an old war, long years in the making.” Glokta frowned. How ever could he have mistaken that old windbag for his mother? And what was he doing in Glokta’s chambers in any case? Sitting in the chair at the foot of his bed, prattling about old wars?

“What the hell are you doing in my chambers?” growled Colonel Glokta, “and what have you done with my sword?”

“Where is the Seed?” A woman’s voice now, but not his mother’s. Someone else. He did not recognise it. He squinted against the darkness, straining to see who was in the chair. He could make out a vague outline, but the shadows were too deep to tell more.

“Who are you?” asked Glokta sternly.

“Who was I? Or what am I?” The figure in the chair shifted as it rose slowly, smoothly, from its seat. “I was a patient woman, but I am woman no more, and the grinding years have worn my patience thin.”

“What do you want?” Glokta’s voice quivered, reedy and weak as he backed away.

The figure moved, stepping through the shaft of moonlight from the window. A woman’s form, slender and graceful, but shadows stuck to the face. A sudden fear clawed at him and he stumbled back against the wall, raising his arm to fend the woman off.

“I want the Seed.” A pale hand snaked out and closed around his outstretched arm. A gentle touch, but cold. Cold as stone. Glokta trembled, gasped, squeezed shut his eyes. “I need it. You cannot know the need I have. Where is it?” Fingers plucked at his clothes, quick and deft, seeking, searching, darting in his pockets, in his shirt, brushing his skin. Cold. Cold as glass.

“The Seed?” squeaked Glokta, half paralysed with terror.

“You know what I speak of, broken man. Where is it?”

“The Maker fell…” he whispered. The words welled up, he knew not from where.

“I know it.”

“…burning, burning…”

“I saw it.” The face was close enough for him to feel the breath upon his skin. Cold. Cold as frost.

“…he broke upon the bridge below…”

“I remember it.”

“…they searched for the Seed…”

“Yes…” whispered the voice, urgent in his ear, “where is it?” Something brushed against his face, his cheek, his eyelid, soft and slimy. A tongue. Cold. Cold as ice. His flesh crawled.

“I don’t know! They could not find it!”

“Could not?” Fingers closed tight around his throat, squeezing, crushing, choking the air from him. Cold. Cold as iron, and just as hard. “You think you know pain, broken man? You know nothing!” The icy breath rasped in his ear, the icy fingers squeezed, squeezed. “But I can show you! I can show you!”

Glokta screamed, thrashed, struggled. He fought his way up, stood for a dizzy instant, then his leg buckled and he plunged into space. The dark room tumbled around him and he crashed to the boards with a sickening crunch, his arm folded beneath him, his forehead cracking against the floor.

He struggled up, clawing at the leg of his bed, pushing himself against the wall, snorting for breath, staring wild-eyed towards the chair, yet barely able to look for fear. A bar of moonlight spilled through the window, cut across the rumpled bed-clothes and onto the polished wood of the seat. Empty.

Glokta cast around the rest of the room, eyes adjusting to the darkness, peering into every shadowy corner. Nothing. Empty. A dream.

And now, as the crazy hammering of his heart relaxed, as his ragged breathing slowed, the pain came on. His head thumped, his leg screamed, his arm was throbbing dully. He could taste blood, his eyes stung and wept, his guts heaved, sick and spinning. He whimpered, made an agonising hop towards the bed, then collapsed on the moonlit mattress, exhausted, wet with cold sweat.

There was an urgent knocking at the door. “Sir? Are you alright?” Barnam’s voice. The knocking came again. No good. It is locked. Always locked, but I don’t think I’ll be moving. Frost will have to break it down. But the door swung open, and Glokta shielded his eyes from the sudden ruddy glow of the old servant’s lamp.

“Are you alright?”

“I fell,” mumbled Glokta. “My arm…”

The old servant perched on the bed, taking Glokta’s hand gently and pushing up the sleeve of his night-shirt. Glokta winced, Barnam clicked his tongue. His forearm had a big pink mark across it, already beginning to swell and redden.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” said the servant, “but I should fetch the surgeon, just in case.”

“Yes, yes.” He waved Barnam away with his good hand. “Fetch him.”

Glokta watched the old servant hurry, stooped, out of the door, heard him creaking along the narrow corridor outside, down the narrow stairs. He heard the front door banging shut. Silence descended.

He looked over at the scroll he had taken from the Adeptus Historical, still rolled up tight on the dresser, waiting to be delivered to Arch Lector Sult. The Maker fell burning. He broke upon the bridge below. Strange, how parts of the waking world stray into one’s dreams. That damned Northman and his intruder. A woman, and cold. That’ll be what set me off.

Glokta rubbed his arm gently, pressing the sore flesh with his fingertips. Nothing. Just a dream. And yet something was niggling at him. He looked over at the back of the door. The key was still in the lock, shining orange in the light from the lamp. Not locked, and yet I must have locked it. Must have. I always do. Glokta looked back to the empty chair. What did that idiot apprentice say? Magic comes from the Other Side. The world below. Hell.

Somehow, at that moment, after that dream, it did not seem so difficult to believe. The fear was building in him again, now he was alone. He stretched out his good hand towards the chair. It took an age to get there, trembling, shaking. His fingers touched the wood. Cool, but not cold. Not cold. There is nothing there. He slowly withdrew his hand, cradled his pulsing arm. Nothing. Empty.

A dream.

“What the hell happened to you?”

Glokta sucked sourly at his gums. “Fell out of bed.” He scratched absently at his wrist through the dressing. Until a moment ago it had been throbbing like hell, but the sight in front of him had pushed the pain into the back of his mind. I could be worse off. A lot worse. “Not a pretty sight. Not at all.”

“You’re damn right it’s not.” Severard looked as disgusted as was possible with half his face covered. “I nearly puked when I first saw it. Me!”

Glokta peered down, frowning, at the tangled mess of butchery, supporting himself against a tree-trunk with one hand and pushing some of the ferns aside with the tip of his cane to get a better look. “Are we even sure it’s a man?”

“Might be a woman. Human anyway. That’s a foot.”

“Ah, so it is. How was it found?”

“He found it.” Severard nodded over towards a gardener: sat on the ground, pale-faced and staring, and with a small pool of drying vomit on the grass beside him. “In amongst the trees here, hidden in the bushes. Looks as if whatever killed it tried to hide it, but not long ago. It’s fresh.” It is indeed—barely any smell, and only a couple of flies have arrived. Very fresh, perhaps last night even. “It might not have been found for days, except someone asked for one of these trees to be pruned. Blocking out the light or something. You ever see anything like this?”