Honor among thieves

Chapter Thirty-Six

Croy brought the whetstone carefully up the iron edge of his sword. The sound it made grated on his nerves, which were at an especially fine pitch already. It was all right. The irritation would help keep him awake. He hadn’t slept in three days.

He brought the whetstone back down to Ghostcutter’s hilt. Touched it gently to the iron. Drew it back up toward the point. Ghostcutter required a very special kind of maintenance. The iron blade was cold-forged by an ancient and forgotten process that imbued a certain virtue to the metal. If the blade were ever exposed to high heat-even from the friction of a whetstone-its mystical temper would be lost. It would no longer be so puissant at its original purpose: slaying demons.

Not that any demons had presented themselves lately. At least none of the inhuman variety called up from the pit by mad sorcerers.

There had been a time when seven swords were needed, when demons had roamed the land freely and seven knights were required to vanquish them. Now they had become rare, as sorcery was slowly being wiped out. Now, more and more often, the Ancient Blades were being turned against human enemies-and even each other.

Was their time passing? Was this the dawning of a new age, when men fought only against men? The elves were all but extinct. Ogres, trolls, and goblins were becoming the stuff of mere rumor and campfire tales.

And at Helstrow, Croy himself had seen an Ancient Blade broken.

The swords had been forged with a certain destiny in mind. If that destiny had come to fruition, if they were no longer needed, then perhaps that explained how the impossible had happened. Perhaps it was a sign from the Lady, a warning not to depend on the things of the past.

Or perhaps there was a more worldly reason. The axe Morget used to cut through Bloodquaffer had been made of dwarven steel. That metal had not existed eight hundred years ago, when the blades were forged. There was nothing of magic in steel-but it was stronger, more flexible, and held an edge better than even the most arcane iron.

He stared down into the dark flat of Ghostcutter, into the shining mirror of the silver that coated its trailing edge. It was a weapon ill-suited to making war against men with steel armor and modern weapons, perhaps. Yet it was still his soul. That was the credo of the Ancient Blades: my sword is my soul. It is not my possession. I am its servant. I will perish, but the blade will survive.

Had Morget broken Ghostcutter, instead of Bloodquaffer-well, perhaps it was a mercy that Orne had not survived his blade for more than a moment.

From the battlements of the holdfast on which he sat, Croy could just see Helstrow on the horizon. He could see the tent camps outside the western gate and a hint of movement there. The barbarians had grown bored with the fortress they’d stolen, and were preparing to move on some other hapless target.

Croy brought the whetstone back down to Ghostcutter’s hilt. Started its journey back toward the point.

The iron edge was as sharp as he could make it.

The other edge of the sword was coated with silver, good for cutting through curses and sorcerous magic. When the molten silver had been applied to the sword it was kept just above its melting point, and as a result had run across the blade like molten candle wax, leaving long runners of bright metal in the fuller and across the flat. The silver didn’t require sharpening-that which it cut was not material. Croy inspected the soft silver carefully, though, looking for nicks and dents that might show black iron underneath. These he smoothed over with endless pressure from his own thumb.

On the horizon, a barbarian on a horse went galloping southward, hurrying for the road to Redweir. It made sense that the learned city there would be the next to come under attack. All power in Skrae rested on a stool with three legs: Helstrow, Redweir, and Ness, the three largest cities and the kingdom’s most defensible walls. Anyone who wished to conquer the kingdom must first break that stability. Cut two of those legs out from under the kingdom and it would topple. Redweir was the obvious choice for the barbarians’ next target for another reason as well. If Morg and his children held Helstrow and Redweir both, they would control the river Strow-and gain the land they had asked for in tribute, and been denied.

Croy prayed that city would be ready for the battle.

He knew it would not.

Still rubbing at the silver with his thumb, he climbed off the merlon he’d been using as a seat and went down the stairs into the open space of the holdfast.

The structure was not built to be comfortable. It was drafty and damp, and there was nothing inside but a floor of packed earth and a few barrels of salted pork. In times long past, the stone structure had stood in the middle of a farming village. The village had moved on, following more fertile soil, but the holdfast remained, its entrance choked with weeds, its walls green and black with perfectly circular patches of lichen. It still served its original purpose, however. It was a place where the local villeins could shelter in case of an attack by bandits or reavers.

It would not have held for an hour against the full force of the barbarian horde. But it was the best Croy had been able to find under the circumstances.

King Ulfram V lay on a pallet of straw, next to a smoky fire. He had not woken, or moved, since Croy brought him there. Yet he breathed still, and when Croy touched the monarch’s neck, he felt a dull pulse.

He found a pot and put it over the fire. He made a thin soup, mostly broth with a few carrots and green potatoes chopped in. He put a spoon in the pot, let it cool in the chill air of the holdfast, and then carefully placed it against the king’s lips.

Very little of the liquid went into Ulfram’s mouth, but the king swallowed reflexively when the warm broth hit the back of his throat. Croy waited a moment, then dipped the spoon in the pot again.

When he decided the king had swallowed enough of the soup, he pulled a blanket up around the man’s shoulders. He fluffed the wadded-up tunic the king had for a pillow. It was all he could do.

Then he went back to smoothing the silver edge of his sword.

Eventually, he dozed. He would not have called it sleep. More like a devotional trance, the same hypnotic reverie Croy fell into during his night-long vigils. He was never totally unaware of his surroundings. His hand’s grip never truly relaxed on the hilt of Ghostcutter.

So when someone pounded on the door of the holdfast, he scuttled up to his feet in an instant, sword in hand.