Joe Abercrombie - Sharp Ends

Shev squinted around Javre’s elbow, waiting for it to resolve itself into something that made better sense. It did not.

‘That is … unusual,’ said Javre.

‘Bloody North,’ muttered Shev. ‘Nothing up here would surprise me.’

The man stopped perhaps two strides off, smiling. But a smile more of madness than good humour. He wore trousers, thankfully, made of some ill-cured pelt, and boots with absurd fur tops. Otherwise he was bare, and his pale torso was knotted with muscle, criss-crossed with scars and beaded with dew. That sword looked even bigger close up, as if forged by an optimist for the use of giants. It was nearly as tall as its owner, and he was not short by any means, for he looked Javre more or less in the eye.

‘Someone’s compensating for something,’ muttered Shev, under her breath.

‘Greetings, ladies,’ said the man, in a thick accent. ‘Lovely day.’

‘It’s fucking not,’ grumbled Shev.

‘Well, it’s all in how you look at it, isn’t it, though?’ He raised his brows expectantly, but when neither of them answered, continued, ‘I am Whirrun of Bligh. Some folk call me Cracknut Whirrun.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Shev.

He looked pleased. ‘You’ve heard of me, then?’

‘No. Where the hell’s Bligh?’

He winced. ‘Honestly, I couldn’t say.’

‘I am Javre,’ said Javre, puffing up her considerable chest, ‘Lioness of Hoskopp.’ Shev rolled her eyes. God – warriors, and their bloody titles, and their bloody introductions, and their bloody chest-puffing. ‘We are crossing this bridge.’

‘Ah! Me too!’

Shev ground her teeth. ‘What is this, a stating-the-obvious competition? We’ve met in the middle of it, haven’t we?’

‘Yes.’ Whirrun heaved in a great breath through his nose and let it sigh happily away. ‘Yes, we have.’

‘That is quite a sword,’ said Javre.

‘It 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. Some say it is God’s sword, fallen from the heavens.’

‘Huh.’ Javre held up the roughly sword-shaped bundle of rags she carried with her. ‘My sword was forged from a fallen star.’

‘It looks like a sword-shaped bundle of rags.’

Javre narrowed her eyes. ‘I have to keep it wrapped up.’

‘Why?’

‘Lest its brilliance blind you.’

‘Ooooooooh,’ said Whirrun. ‘The funny thing about that is, now I really want to see it. Would I get a good look before I was blinded, or-’

‘Are you two done with the pissing contest?’ asked Shev.

‘I would not get into a pissing contest with a man.’ Javre pushed her hips forward, stuck her hand in her groin and indicated the probable arc with a pointed finger. ‘I have tried it before and you can say what you like about cocks but they just get far more distance. Far more. What?’ she asked, frowning over her shoulder. ‘It simply cannot be done, no matter how much you drink. Now, if you want a pissing contest-’

‘I don’t!’ snapped Shev. ‘Right now all I want is somewhere dry to kill myself!’

‘You are so overdramatic,’ said Javre, shaking her head. ‘She is so overdramatic. It is exhausting.’

Whirrun shrugged. ‘It’s a fine line between too much drama and too little, isn’t it, though?’

‘True,’ mused Javre. ‘True.’

There was a pause, while the bridge creaked faintly.

‘Well,’ said Shev, ‘this has been lovely, but we are being pursued by agents of the Great Temple in Thond and some fellows hired by Horald the Finger, so, if you don’t mind-’

‘In fact I do. I, too, am pursued, by agents of the King of the Northmen, Bethod. You’d think he’d have better things to do, what with this mad war against the Union, but Bethod, well, like him or no, you have to admit he’s persistent.’

‘Persistently a shit,’ said Shev.

‘I won’t disagree,’ lamented Whirrun. ‘The greater a man’s power swells, the smaller his good qualities shrivel.’

‘True,’ mused Javre. ‘True.’

Another long silence, and the wind blew up and made the bridge sway alarmingly. Javre and Whirrun frowned at one another.

‘Step aside,’ said Javre, ‘and we shall be on our way.’

‘I do not care to step aside. Especially on a bridge as narrow as this one.’ Whirrun’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘And your tone somewhat offends me.’

‘Then your delicate feelings will be even worse wounded by my boot up your arse. Step aside.’

Whirrun swung the Father of Swords from his shoulder and set it point-down on the bridge. ‘I fear you will have to show me that blade after all, woman.’

‘My pleasure-’

‘Wait!’ snapped Shev, ducking around Javre to hold up a calming palm. ‘Just wait a moment! You can murder each other with my blessing but if you set to swinging your hugely impressive swords on this bridge, the chances are good you’ll cut one of the ropes, and then you’ll kill not just each other but me, too, and that you very much do not have my blessing for.’

Whirrun raised his brows. ‘She has a point.’

‘Shevedieh can be a deep thinker,’ said Javre, nodding. She gestured back the way they had come. ‘Let us return to our end to fight.’

Shev gave a gasp. ‘So you wouldn’t step aside to let him past but you’ll happily plod all the way back to fight?’

Javre looked baffled. ‘Of course. That is only good manners.’

‘Exactly!’ said Whirrun. ‘Manners are everything to a good-mannered person. That is why we must go to my end of the bridge to fight.’

It was Javre’s turn to narrow her eyes. She was almost as dangerous an eye-narrower as she was a fighter, which was saying something. ‘It must be my end.’

‘My end,’ growled Whirrun. ‘I insist.’

Shev rubbed at her temples. The past few years, it was a wonder she hadn’t worn them right through. ‘Are you two idiots really going to fight over where you fight? We were going this way! He’s offering to let us go this way! Let’s just go this way!’

Javre narrowed her eyes still further. Blue slits, they were. ‘All right. But don’t think you’re talking us out of fighting, Shevedieh.’

Shev gave her very weariest sigh. ‘Far be it from me to prevent bloodshed.’

Whirrun wedged his great sword point-down into a crack in the rocks and left it gently wobbling. ‘Let’s put our blades aside. The Father of Swords cannot be drawn without being blooded.’

Javre snorted. ‘Afraid?’

‘No. The witch Shoglig told me the time and place of my death, and it is not here, and it is not now.’

‘Huh.’ Javre set her own sword down and began, one by one, to explosively crack her knuckles. ‘Did she tell you the time of me kicking you so hard you shit yourself?’

Whirrun’s face took on a contemplative look. ‘She did predict my shitting myself, but that was because of a rancid stew and, anyway, that happened already. Last year, near Uffrith. That is why I have these new trousers.’ He bent over to smile proudly upon them, then frowned towards Shev. ‘I trust your servant will stay out of this?’

‘Servant?’ snapped Shev.

‘Shevedieh is not my servant,’ said Javre.

‘Thank you.’

‘She is at least a henchman. Possibly even a sidekick.’

Shev planted her hands on her hips. ‘We’re partners! A duo!’

Javre laughed. ‘No. Duo? No, no, no.’

‘Whatever she is,’ said Whirrun, ‘she looks sneaky. I don’t want her stabbing me in the back.’