Joe Abercrombie: Before They Are Hanged

He looked over at Ferro, and she looked back. She didn’t frown, she didn’t smile. He’d never been much at understanding women, of course, or anyone else, but Ferro was some new kind of riddle. She acted just as cold and angry by day as she ever had, but most nights now she still seemed to find her way under his blanket. He didn’t understand it and he didn’t dare ask. The sad fact was, she was about the best thing he’d had in his life for a long time. He puffed his cheeks out and scratched his head. That didn’t say much for his life, now he thought about it.

They found a kind of cave at the base of the cliffs. More of a hollow really, in the lee of two great boulders, where the wind didn’t blast quite so strongly. Not much of a place for a conversation, but the island was a wasteland and Logen saw little chance of finding a better. You have to be realistic, after all.

Ferro took her sword to a stunted tree nearby and soon they had enough sticks to make an effort at a flame. Logen hunched over and fumbled the tinderbox out with numb fingers. Draughts blew in around the rocks and the wood was damp, but after much cursing and fumbling with the flint he finally managed to light a fire fit for the purpose. They huddled in around it.

“Bring out the box,” said Bayaz, and Logen hauled the heavy thing out from his pack and set it down next to Ferro with a grunt. Bayaz felt around its edge with his fingertips, found some hidden catch and the lid lifted silently. There were a set of metal coils underneath, pointing in from all sides to leave a space the size of Logen’s fist.

“What are they for?” he asked.

“To keep what is inside still and well-cushioned.”

“It needs to be cushioned?”

“Kanedias thought so.” That answer did not make Logen feel any better. “Place it inside as soon as you are able,” said the Magus, turning to Ferro. “We do not wish to be exposed to it for longer than we must. It is best that you all keep your distance.” And he ushered the others back with his palms. Luthar and Longfoot nearly scrambled over each other in their eagerness to get away, but Quai’s eyes were fixed on the preparations and he scarcely moved.

Logen sat cross-legged in front of the flickering fire, feeling the weight of worry in his stomach growing steadily heavier. He was starting to regret ever getting involved with this business, but it was a bit late now for second thoughts. “Something to offer them will help,” he said, looking round, and found Bayaz already holding a metal flask out. Logen unscrewed the cap and took a sniff. The smell of strong spirits greeted his nostrils like a sorely missed lover. “You had this all the time?”

Bayaz nodded. “For this very purpose.”

“Wish I’d known. I could’ve put it to good use more than once.”

“You can put it to good use now.”

“Not quite the same thing.” Logen tipped the flask up and took a mouthful, resisted a powerful urge to swallow, puffed out his cheeks and blew it out in a mist over the fire, sending up a gout of flame.

“And now?” asked Bayaz.

“Now we wait. We wait until—”

“I am here, Ninefingers.” A voice like the wind through the rocks, like the stones falling from the cliffs, like the sea draining through the gravel. The spirit loomed over them in their shallow cave among the stones, a moving pile of grey rock as tall as two men, casting no shadow.

Logen raised his eyebrows. The spirits never answered promptly, if they bothered to answer at all. “That was quick.”

“I have been waiting.”

“A long time, I reckon.” The spirit nodded. “Well, er, we’ve come for—”

“For that thing that the sons of Euz entrusted to me. There must be desperate business in the world of men for you to seek it out.”

Logen swallowed. “When isn’t there?”

“Do you see anything?” Jezal whispered behind him.

“Nothing,” replied Longfoot. “It is indeed a most remarkable—”

“Shut your mouths!” snarled Bayaz over his shoulder.

The spirit loomed down close over him. “This is the First of the Magi?”

“It is,” said Logen, keeping the talk to the point.

“He is shorter than Juvens. I do not like his look.”

“What does it say?” snapped Bayaz impatiently, staring into the air well to the left of the spirit.

Logen scratched his face. “It says that Juvens was tall.”

“Tall? What of it? Get what we came for and let us be gone!”

“He is impatient,” rumbled the spirit.

“We’ve come a long way. He has Juvens’ staff.”

The spirit nodded. “The dead branch is familiar to me. I am glad. I have held this thing for long winters, and it has been a heavy weight to carry. Now I will sleep.”

“Good idea. If you could—”

“I will give it to the woman.”

The spirit dug its hand into its stony stomach and Logen shuffled back warily. The fist emerged, and something was clutched inside, and he felt himself shiver as he saw it.

“Hold your hands out,” he muttered to Ferro.

Jezal gave an involuntary gasp and scrambled away as the thing dropped down into Ferro’s waiting palms, raising an arm to shield his face, his mouth hanging open with horror. Bayaz stared, eyes wide. Quai craned eagerly forward. Logen grimaced and rocked back. Longfoot scrambled almost all the way out of the hollow. For a long moment all six of them stared at the dark object in Ferro’s hands, no one moving, no one speaking, no sound except for the keening wind. There it was, before them. That thing which they had come so far, and braved so many dangers to find. That thing which Glustrod dug from the deep earth long years ago. That thing which had made a blasted ruin of the greatest city in the world.

The Seed. The Other Side, made flesh. The very stuff of magic.

Then Ferro slowly began to frown. “This is it?” she asked doubtfully. “This is the thing that will turn Shaffa to dust?”

It did, in fact, now that Jezal was overcoming the shock of its sudden appearance, look like nothing more than a stone. A chunk of unremarkable grey rock the size of a big fist. No sense of unearthly danger washed from it. No deadly power was evident. No withering rays or stabs of lightning shot forth. It did, in fact, look like nothing more than a stone.

Bayaz blinked. He shuffled closer, on his hands and knees. He peered down at the object in Ferro’s palms. He licked his lips, lifting his hand ever so slowly while Jezal watched, his heart pounding in his ears. Bayaz touched the rock with his little finger tip then jerked it instantly back. He did not suddenly wither and expire. He probed it once more with his finger. There was no thunderous detonation. He pressed his palm upon it. He closed his thick fingers round it. He lifted it up. And still, it looked like nothing more than a stone.

The First of the Magi stared down at the thing in his hand, his eyes growing wider and wider. “This is not it,” he whispered, his lip trembling. “This is just a stone!”

There was a stunned silence. Jezal stared at Logen, and the Northman gazed back, scarred face slack with confusion. Jezal stared at Longfoot, and the Navigator could only shrug his bony shoulders. Jezal stared at Ferro, and he watched her frown grow harder and harder. “Just a stone?” she muttered.

“Not it?” hissed Quai.

“Then…” The meaning of Bayaz’ words was only just starting to sink into Jezal’s mind. “I came all this way… for nothing?” A sudden gust blew up, snuffing out the miserable tongue of flame and blowing grit in his face.

“Perhaps there is some mistake,” ventured Longfoot. “Perhaps there is another spirit, perhaps there is another—”

“No mistake,” said Logen, firmly shaking his head.