David Chandler - Honor among thieves

Against them Morget had an enormous reserve of strength and a shocking brutality of nature. This wasn’t going to be easy.

“I called you brother, once,” Croy said, taking a step sideways, toward Morget’s less defensible left. “That was a mistake.”

“I took your hand in friendship, once,” Morget replied, not bothering to follow Croy’s footwork. “It was the smartest thing I ever did. Look where it got me!”

“It’s about to get you killed,” Croy said.

Morget looked as if he was framing a reply.

Croy didn’t wait to hear it. He leapt inward, striking low at Morget’s thigh. Ghostcutter rang like a bell when Dawnbringer came down to block its cut. Light flashed up from Morget’s blade.

“Fie!” Croy cursed, blinking furiously. The light had dazzled him momentarily-but even in that split second Morget had plenty of time to counterattack.

Yet the barbarian did not take the advantage. “You could be the enemy I’ve sought,” Morget said. “The man my wyrd has been chasing all this time. Yet I see you’ve been wounded, and have not yet had time to heal. Should we postpone this fight for another day?”

Croy spun around, Ghostcutter whistling over his head. Dawnbringer came up and batted it away with little effort. At least this time Croy kept enough of his wits about him not to look into the blade as it flared with light.

He tried to follow through with a slash down the center of Morget’s chest, but Dawnbringer moved so quickly he couldn’t follow it and parried the strike. Croy took a half step backward, then spun Ghostcutter around and around in a series of quick, shallow cuts that would never kill Morget but might make him bleed.

Dawnbringer rang and flared, rang and flared, rang and flared once more. Not once did Ghostcutter break through that flurry of iron.

Staggering backward, Croy sucked wildly for breath. He didn’t have the stamina for this. It was possible-just possible-that a man with boundless energy could wear Morget down, given enough time. Croy’s limbs, though, were already gripped by fatigue and his armor had never felt heavier.

“You’ve made your choice, then,” Morget said. “I’ll give you time to pray, if you like. Before I cut you in half. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps yours is not the strength my father spoke of either. Perhaps-”

With everything he had left, Croy brought Ghostcutter around in one unstoppable cut, the kind of furious strike that could carve a man like a goose. It was the most deadly attack he knew how to make, and desperation pushed it harder than any blow he’d ever swung before.

Dawnbringer came down hard and the two blades met with a sickening crunch.

Burning light erupted all along the length of Dawnbringer’s forte. Ghostcutter grew hot in Croy’s hands as the cold iron of its blade took the energy of the blow and lost its near-magical temper. Silver flaked away from the sword’s trailing edge.

Neither man could move. The swords had cut into each other, locking together as if they had fused into one piece of iron. For a moment everything was frozen, time itself having stopped to wait and see what happened next.

Then Morget wrapped both hands around the hilt of Dawnbringer. He twisted from the hip, his massive arms flexing until the veins popped out on his forearms and Croy could see his pulse beating.

There was a noise like great mill wheels grinding against one another, and then a soul-sickening snap. Dawnbringer gave out one last feeble burst of light.

Both swords exploded into shards that spun and hung in the air and flashed with reflected sunlight when they hit the snow. Both men stood where they’d been, holding only the hilts of now useless weapons.

“My soul,” Croy whispered. “My sword-”

“I see now,” Morget said. He raised his free hand high as if beseeching the heavens. His eyes weren’t looking at Croy but at a dead man. “I see it, Father. This is my wyrd. My destiny. To destroy not men, but their swords. To be the last of the Ancient Blades, and their ending. This is what drove me, and now-”

Croy threw himself forward. The hilt in his hand ended in a good inch and a half of broken metal, jagged and sharp. Ghostcutter would perform one last service in the name of Skrae.

He punched the inch and a half in through Morget’s left eye. He ground it in until he felt bone split.

Morget dropped the ruin of Dawnbringer and squealed in fury and pain. Then he brought up one massive fist and slammed Croy away from him, smashing the knight along the jaw so that Croy’s head spun around and up and white light burst in his head, white light that faded to black.

The blow laid Croy out on the iron-flecked snow, unable to stand, unable to focus his eyes. Skilfinger knights came and dragged him away, slapped his face and shouted his name until he could see again, see and hear the sounds of the battle. It raged still all around him.

“Morget,” he said. “Morget-does he still live? Did you see his body?”

But the Skilfingers didn’t know his language, and none of his translators were nearby.

Smoke from the explosion of Slag’s weapon hung in the air, great choking clouds of it. Malden hurried forward into the gap in the city wall, his ankles twisting this way and that as he clambered over piles of broken stone and the bodies of dead berserkers. He heard movement up ahead of him and he drew Acidtongue from its sheath. There was no telling what lay out there, beyond the wall.

Behind him a mob of armed citizens had formed. They muttered and moaned among themselves, as terrified as he was, as desperate to learn how things stood beyond the wall. Ready for whatever came through, or as ready as they could be.

At least this time they weren’t calling for his blood. They weren’t demanding he sacrifice himself at the Godstone for the good of the city.

Malden trod on the shield of a dead berserker and it crackled under his foot. It had been so peppered with flying debris that the wood fell apart like hard cheese. Up ahead, in the dim smoke, something moved fast across his field of vision.

He lowered himself to a defensive crouch. He remembered the ill-fitting suit of armor he’d worn when he spoke to Morg from atop the wall. As painful as it had been to wear, he would have been glad of its protection now.

Moving forward, he lifted his free hand and waved it behind him, ushering the mob forward, after him. He didn’t bother to look back to see if they complied. Another step, into the smoke. Another, Acidtongue’s point bobbing in the air as Malden sought for something to strike.

When the reaver came for him, he still wasn’t ready. The man was huge, a wall of muscle, his face red with blood, his axe raised high. He looked even more terrified than Malden felt, but the thief knew that fear could make a man more dangerous than a lion.

The axe came down before Malden could even react, its wicked pointed blade slicing through the air. Malden tried to dodge to the side but the blow was just too fast, just too brutal. Malden winced, expecting to be cut in two.

Instead the axe struck a stone near Malden’s feet, smashing it to powder.

“Where are you, you western bastard?” the reaver demanded. “I can smell you! I can taste your blood already!”

It was only then that Malden realized the reaver was blind. A sword stroke had cut across his face, ruining his eyes. Other wounds marred his arms and chest. The man must have been wounded in the fighting outside, then wandered in through the gap in the wall without even realizing where he was.

Malden felt pity well up in his chest for the barbarian, despite the fact the man had just tried to kill him. It was no kind of world for a blind man. “Surrender,” he said, almost pleading with the reaver. “Give in, and you’ll be spared, I promise-”