Den of thieves

Chapter Ninety

Croy gritted his teeth.

For my lord the Burgrave, he thought. For honor. For the code of the Ancient Blades. For the sake of my immortal soul.

For Cythera.

Every fiber of his being was in agreement. He would not surrender his sword. He would not turn and walk away. If he died in the next moment, he would die as he had lived. The sacrifice was acceptable.

But he didn’t intend to die.

As he drew Ghostcutter free of its scabbard, warmth flowed down his arm. His heart was giving up the last of its strength, all in the service of one final battle.

Bikker smiled, as if this was exactly what he wanted. “You’ll fall quickly enough. But you’ll die on your feet,” he said. “Do you see what honor is, now? Honor is something that exists between men like us. Strong men! The weak of this world, the peasants, the little people-they know nothing of it.”

Croy thought of Malden and Kemper affirming that there was no honor among thieves. Maybe Bikker was right.

But-no. Malden had risked everything to help Cythera. Malden had gone into Hazoth’s villa, uncertain of what he could achieve, but willing to try.

“You were wrong earlier,” Croy said.

“What? What are you prattling about?” Bikker demanded.

“Earlier. You said I thought my blood was a different color from yours. You were wrong.”

“I think you’re feverish, Croy. Your wounds would certainly warrant it. Speak clearly, man, or just be quiet and let us finish what we’ve started.”

“I don’t think I bleed a different color than you,” Croy said. “Blood is the same in every man’s veins. But there is something in me you can’t match.”

He thought back to when Bikker had trained him, to one day in particular. They’d been going through postures for hours, Croy learning every way there was to hold a sword. They’d practiced hundreds of parries, thousands of lunges. Bikker called a halt when neither of them could see for the sweat in their eyes. Then, when Croy put Ghostcutter away for the day, Bikker picked up a wooden practice sword and knocked him into a pigpen with one solid whack to the back of his knees.

“Fencing is something gentle folk do,” Bikker had said. “You can train a lifetime to master it. But never forget-anyone, even a peasant, can bring you down with a single, solid blow. It only takes one cut to kill a man.”

So now he faced Bikker with Ghostcutter gripped in both hands, the point aimed directly at Bikker’s heart. Bikker took his own stance, with Acidtongue at an angle across the front of his body.

If he was focused and committed enough, Croy thought, he might strike one more blow before his body gave out completely. He would have to make it the one that brought Bikker down.

The two of them nodded at each other in way of salute.

And then they began.