Jonathan Strahan - Swords & Dark Magic - The New Sword and Sorcery

Craw’s hands moved by themselves through the old routines, mind wandering back across the years to other times he’d done it, other places, other faces around him, a lot of ’em gone back to the mud long ago. A few he’d buried with his own hands. He hoped none of these folk died today, and became nothing but dirt and worn-out memories. He checked his shield, grip bound in leather all tight and sturdy, straps firm. He checked his knife, his backup knife, and his backup backup knife, all tight in their sheaths. You can never have too many knives, someone once told him, and it was solid advice, provided you were careful how you stowed ’em and didn’t fall over and get your own blade in your fruits.

Everyone had their work to be about. Except Whirrun. He just bowed his head as he lifted his sword gently from the tree-trunk, holding it under the crosspiece by its stained leather scabbard, sheathed blade longer’n one of his own long legs. Then he pushed his hood back, scrubbed one hand through his flattened hair, and stood watching the others, head on one side.

“That the only blade you carry?” asked Craw as he stowed his own sword at his hip, hoping to draw the tall man in, start to build some trust with him. Tight crew like this was, a bit of trust might save your life. Might save everyone’s.

Whirrun’s eyes swiveled to him. “This is the Father of Swords, and men have a hundred names for it. Dawn Razor. Grave-Maker. Blood Harvest. Highest and Lowest. Scac-ang-Gaioc in the valley tongue which means the Splitting of the World, the Battle that was fought at the start of time and will be fought again at its end.” For a moment he had Craw wondering if he’d list the whole bloody hundred but thankfully he stopped there, frowning at the hilt, wound with dull grey wire. “This is my reward and my punishment both. This is the only blade I need.”

“Bit long for eating with, no?” asked Wonderful, strutting up from the other side.

Whirrun bared his teeth at her. “That’s what these are for.”

“Don’t you ever sharpen it?” asked Craw.

“It sharpens me.”

“Right. Right y’are.” Just the style of nonsense Craw would’ve expected from Cracknut Leef or some other rune-tosser. He hoped Whirrun was as good with that great big blade as he was supposed to be, ’cause it seemed he brought nothing to the table as a conversationalist.

“Besides, to sharpen it you’d have to draw it,” said Wonderful, winking at Craw with the eye Whirrun couldn’t see.

“True.” Whirrun’s eyes slid up to her face. “And once the Father of Swords is drawn, it cannot be sheathed without—”

“Being blooded?” she finished for him. Didn’t take skill with the runes to see that coming, Whirrun must’ve said the same words a dozen times since they left Carleon. Enough for everyone to get somewhat tired of it.

“Blooded,” echoed Whirrun, voice full of portent.

Wonderful gave Craw a look. “You ever think, Whirrun of Bligh, you might take yourself a touch too serious?”

He tipped his head back and stared up into the sky. “I’ll laugh when I hear something funny.”

Craw felt Yon’s hand on his shoulder. “A word, chief?”

“’Course,” with a grin that took some effort.

He guided Craw away from the others a few steps, and spoke soft. The same words he always did before a fight. “If I die down there…”

“No one’s dying today,” snapped Craw, the same words he always used in reply.

“So you said last time, ’fore we buried Jutlan.” That drove Craw’s mood another rung down the ladder into the bog. “No one’s fault, we do a dangerous style o’ work, and all know it. Chances are good I’ll live through, but all I’m saying is, if I don’t—”

“I’ll stop by your children, and take ’em your share, and tell them what you were.”

“That’s right. And?”

“And I won’t dress it up any.”

“Right, then.” Jolly Yon didn’t smile, of course. Craw had known him years, and hadn’t seen him smile more’n a dozen times, and even then when it was least expected. But he nodded, satisfied. “Right. No man I’d rather give the task to.”

Craw nodded back. “Good. Great.” No task he wanted less. As Yon walked off, he muttered to himself. “Always the fool jobs…”

It went pretty much just like Craw planned. He wouldn’t have called it the first time ever, but it was a pleasant surprise, that was sure. The six of them lay still and silent on the rise, followed the little movements of leaf and branch that marked Never creeping towards that crap-arse of a village. It looked no better the closer you got to it. Things rarely did, in Craw’s experience. He chewed at his nails some more, saw Never kneel in the bushes across the stream from the north gate, nocking an arrow and drawing the string. It was hard to tell from this range, but it looked like he still had that knowing little grin even now.

He loosed his shaft and Craw thought it clicked into one of the logs that made the fence. Faint shouting drifted on the wind. A couple of arrows wobbled back the other way, vanished into the trees as Never turned and scuttled off, lost in the brush. Craw heard some kind of a drum beating, more shouting, then men started to hurry out across that bridge, weapons of rough iron clutched in their hands, some still pulling their furs or boots on. Perhaps three dozen, all told. A neat piece of work. Provided Never got away, of course.

Yon shook his head as he watched a good chunk of the Fox Clan shambling over their bridge and into the trees. “Amazing, ain’t it? I never quite get used to just how fucking stupid people are.”

“Always a mistake to overestimate the bastards,” whispered Craw. “Good thing we’re the cleverest crew in the Circle of the World, eh? So could we have no fuckups, today, if you please?”

“I won’t if you won’t, chief,” muttered Wonderful.

“Huh.” If only he’d been able to make that promise. Craw tapped Scorry on his shoulder and pointed down into the village. The little man winked back, then slid over the rise on his belly and down through the undergrowth, nimble as a tadpole through a pond.

Craw worked his dry tongue around his dry mouth. Always ran out of spit at a time like this, and however often he did it, it never got any better. He glanced out the corner of his eye at the others, none of ’em showing much sign of a weak nerve. He wondered if they were bubbling up with worry on the inside, just like he was, and putting a stern face on the wreckage, just like he was. Or if it was only him scared. But in the end it didn’t seem to make much difference. The best you could do with fear was act like you had none.

He held his fist up, pleased to see his hand didn’t shake, then pointed after Scorry, and they all set off. Down towards the south gate—if you could use the phrase about a gap in a rotten fence under a kind of arch made from crooked branches, skull of some animal unlucky enough to have a fearsome pair of horns mounted in the middle of it. Made Craw wonder if they had a straight piece of wood within a hundred bloody miles.

The one guard left stood under that skull, leaning on his spear, staring at nothing, tangle-haired and fur-clad. He picked his nose, and held one finger up to look at the results. He flicked it away. He stretched, and reached around to scratch his arse. Scorry’s knife thudded into the side of his neck and chopped his throat out, quick and simple as a fisher gutting a salmon. Craw winced, just for a moment, but he knew there’d been no dodging it. They’d be lucky if that was the only man who lost his life so they could get this fool job done. Scorry held him a moment while blood showered from his slit neck, caught him as he fell, guided his twitching body soundless to the side of the gate, out of sight of any curious eyes inside.