David Chandler - Honor among thieves

Hew raised Chillbrand to ward off the blow. Axe and sword met with a horrible clang that made Croy’s teeth hurt, even from a half dozen yards away.

The axe cut through Chillbrand’s frost-rimed iron, barely slowing down as it shattered the Ancient Blade.

Morget boomed out a gruesome laugh. “Another one!”

While Morget exulted, Croy had closed the distance between them. “Try this one,” he screamed, and drove Ghostcutter deep into the barbarian’s side.

Slag crowed and danced and shouted up to Malden where he stood on the wall, “Lad! Lad! Did you fucking see that?”

“I did,” Malden called back. He turned to the far side of the wall and peered down. The barbarians had surged away from the gap in the wall. Terror gripped them-many had even dropped their weapons. Yet behind them were thousands more, confused, perhaps even frightened by all the noise and smoke, but who had seen nothing of what Slag’s weapon could do. Still they pressed on toward Ness. Still they continued the attack.

He looked all around for Morget, because he knew that once the huge barbarian had time to realize what had happened, he would instantly begin rallying his troops for another attack. Even fire and destruction would not stop that man.

This wasn’t over. This was just beginning.

Cold fright gripped Malden’s bowels and he worried he might soil himself. They’d driven back the first wave, that was true. Slag had made that happen. Yet now there was an enormous gaping hole in the wall. Malden had no way to fight an effective battle without the wall to protect them.

Ness had a hope in the opposing army-though not much of one. Who was it out there, fighting the barbarians from the rear? Was it the Burgrave and his Army of Free Men? There was no way that rabble could defeat Morget once he regrouped. They might be making some small dent in the rearguard but could never hope to overcome the main force of easterners.

Malden rubbed at his face. It was bitterly cold up on the wall, where the wind stung every bit of exposed flesh, but still his face was wet. Greasy, sick-smelling sweat rolled down inside the collar of his tunic and pooled in the small of his back. He had to do something. Something!

He hurried down the wall and ran over to where Slag stood, still holding his snake-headed staff.

“Come to congratulate me?” the dwarf asked.

Balint was inspecting the broken wall, picking up chunks of masonry and debris and then casting them away again. Malden grabbed her arm and pulled her over to where Slag stood. “You two are the finest engineers this world has ever known, surely. And you deserve a grand reward already. But I must ask you to continue your labors. Get your weapon ready to be used once more. Once the barbarians have a chance to find their scattered wits, we’ll need to strike them again. And again.”

The two dwarves looked up at him with open mouths and wide eyes.

“I know I ask much of you, but-”

Malden stopped. He knew what they were going to say. So badly did he not want to hear it that he held up a hand to keep them from speaking.

He looked up at the weapon, the giant brass tube that Slag had made. It had rolled back into a house across the street, shattering the facade and half burying itself in fallen timbers and bricks.

It had also shattered itself. Long cracks ran up and down its length, and its mouth was splayed wide, the bright metal curled backward on itself like a flower of brass. Smoke dribbled from that opening still.

It was clear to anyone, even one of so little learning as Malden, that it would never work again. It had done what it could, but in the process it had destroyed itself.

“That… was it,” Malden said. “Wasn’t it? There was only one volley in it.”

“I did warn you, lad,” Slag said in a very small voice.

Malden closed his eyes. Was this the end? “Then we must all hope,” he said, “that Tarness is as great a general as he thinks he is.”

Morget shouted in pain and for a moment froze in place, unable to continue his attack. It gave Hew time to scuttle away on his back like a crab, and that gave Croy room to dance around and face Morget directly. He knew better than to think his blow had killed the barbarian, though he was certain he’d pierced vital organs.

It had not been a particularly virtuous attack. He’d struck out blindly to save Hew-but even Morget deserved a better death than a sneak attack to his unprotected side. Croy stepped back, flicking blood away from Ghostcutter’s blade, while the giant barbarian bent around his wound and watched his blood drip on the ground.

There was a way these things should be done. When two great swordsmen met in single combat, it was called a conversation, because the swords ringing against each other could sound like they were arguing in something approaching human speech. But also because any such fight should properly begin with words.

Each side must state his case-explain, in detail, why he had the right to win the contest. Why fate should favor him. It was an old ritual, but it served one perfectly functional purpose as well. The banter before the exchange of blows could drive one man or the other to anger or fear or resignation to death. Many conversations ended before swords even met or blood was drawn. Croy was a master of every aspect of the swordsman’s art and he knew how to taunt and accuse just as well as he knew how to parry and feint and lunge.

“ ‘My sword is my soul,’ ” Croy said. The creed of the Ancient Blades. “You don’t have a soul, do you, Mountainslayer?” he asked. “You defile Dawnbringer by touching it.”

“A soul?” Morget asked. He looked as if he would be happy to discuss fine points of philosophy rather than continue the fight. As if his wound didn’t pain him at all. Perhaps Morget had learned something about dismissing pain while he had been a berserker. “Perhaps I do not. But I am possessed by a wyrd.”

Croy had no idea what that meant. He did know he was fighting one-armed against a giant of a man who could fight with two weapons at once. “Have you any honor?” he asked. “Face me, blade-to-blade. Like a knight. Prove to me you have the right to carry Dawnbringer. Or die, and let me take it from you. That’s one of the vows we take as Ancient Blades. If we fail to live up to the sword’s worth, it will be taken from us. Given to someone more virtuous.”

“Come and get it, then. For I have no virtue at all,” Morget said. “I’m too honest for such lies as honor and valor. All I know is strength and glory.”

Croy tried to laugh. All that came out of his mouth was a dry rasping rattle. “To the end you are a barbarian. Uncultured, and unknowing of the ways of true honor. You never deserved to hold Dawnbringer. Look, even now you hold it the same way you hold your axe. Like a laborer holding a tool. A true warrior fights with sword alone.”

Morget smiled, showing enormous teeth like the pegs on the neck of a lute. He bowed, slightly. Then he made a great show of dropping his axe.

Croy spared a quick look around him. Reavers surrounded him on all sides, but they were holding back-either because they knew Morget would want to fight Croy alone, or because the Skilfinger knights were constantly harrying them to keep them away from the regent of Skrae.

Fate had conspired to bring the two of them together like this. At long last. From the moment Croy had realized Morget still lived-when he struck down Sir Orne and broke Bloodquaffer, while Croy carried the sleeping king away from Helstrow-he had known this moment would come.

Justice, honor, and the Lady were all on his side.