The Blade Itself (24 page)

Logen sniffed at it suspiciously. “Smells like feet.”

“Suit yourself.” Bayaz shook his head and sat back down beside the fire, wrapping both hands around the steaming cup. “But you’re missing out on one of nature’s greatest gifts to man.” He took a sip and smacked his lips in satisfaction. “Calming to the mind, invigorating to the body. There are few ills a good cup of tea won’t help with.”

Logen pressed a lump of chagga into the bowl of his pipe. “How about an axe in the head?”

“That’s one of them,” admitted Bayaz with a grin. “Tell me, Master Ninefingers, why all the blood between you and Bethod? Did you not fight for him many times? Why do you hate each other so?”

Logen paused as he was sucking smoke from the pipe, let his breath out. “There are reasons,” he said stiffly. The wounds of that time were still raw. He didn’t like anyone picking at them.

“Ah, reasons.” Bayaz looked down at his tea-cup. “And what of your reasons? Does this feud not cut both ways?”

“Perhaps.”

“But you are willing to wait?”

“I’ll have to be.”

“Hmm. You are very patient, for a Northman.”

Logen thought of Bethod, and his loathsome sons, and the many good men they’d killed for their ambitions. The men he’d killed for their ambitions. He thought of the Shanka, and his family, and the ruins of the village by the sea. He thought of all his dead friends. He sucked at his teeth and stared at the fire.

“I’ve settled a few scores in my time, but it only led to more. Vengeance can feel fine, but it’s a luxury. It doesn’t fill your belly, or keep the rain off. To fight my enemies I need friends behind me, and I’m clean out of friends. You have to be realistic. It’s been a while since my ambitions went beyond getting through each day alive.”

Bayaz laughed, his eyes glittering in the firelight. “What?” asked Logen, handing the pipe across to him.

“No offence, but you are an endless source of surprises. Not at all what I was expecting. You are quite the riddle.”

“Me?”

“Oh yes! The Bloody-Nine,” he whispered, opening his eyes up wide. “That’s one bastard of a reputation you’re carrying, my friend. The stories they tell! One bastard of a name! Why, mothers scare their children with it!” Logen said nothing. There was no denying it. Bayaz sucked slowly on the pipe, then blew out a long plume of smoke. “I’ve been thinking about the day that Prince Calder paid us a visit.”

Logen snorted. “I try not to spare him too much thought.”

“Nor I, but it wasn’t his behaviour that interested me, it was yours.”

“It was? I don’t remember doing a thing.”

Bayaz pointed the stem of the pipe at Logen from across the fire. “Ah, but that is my point exactly. I have known many fighting men, soldiers and generals and champions and whatnot. A great fighter must act quickly, decisively, whether with his own arm or with an army, for he who strikes first often strikes last. So fighters come to rely on their baser instincts, to answer always with violence, to become proud and brutal.” Bayaz passed the pipe back to Logen. “But whatever the stories, you are not such a one.”

“I know plenty who’d disagree.”

“Perhaps, but the fact remains, Calder slighted you, and you did nothing. So you know when you should act, and act quickly, but you also know when not to. That shows restraint, and a calculating mind.”

“Perhaps I was just afraid.”

“Of him? Come now. You didn’t seem afraid of Scale and he’s a deal more worrying. And you walked forty miles with my apprentice over your back, and that shows courage, and compassion too. A rare combination, indeed. Violence and restraint, calculation and compassion—and you speak to the spirits too.”

Logen raised an eyebrow. “Not often, and only when there’s no one else around. Their talk is dull, and not half so flattering as yours.”

“Hah. That’s true. The spirits have little to say to men, I understand, though I have never spoken with them; I have not the gift. Few have these days.” He took another swallow from his cup, peering at Logen over the rim. “I can scarcely think of another one alive.”

Malacus stumbled from the trees, shivering, and set the wet bowls down. He grabbed his blanket, wrapped it tightly around him, then peered hopefully at the steaming pot on the fire. “Is that tea?”

Bayaz ignored him. “Tell me, Master Ninefingers, in all the time since you arrived at my library, you have never once asked me why I sent for you, or why now we are wandering through the North in peril of our lives. That strikes me as odd.”

“Not really. I don’t want to know.”

“Don’t want to?”

“All my life I’ve sought to know things. What’s on the other side of the mountains? What are my enemies thinking? What weapons will they use against me? What friends can I trust?” Logen shrugged. “Knowledge may be the root of power, but each new thing I’ve learned has left me worse off.” He sucked again on the pipe, but it was finished. He tapped the ashes out onto the ground. “Whatever it is you want from me I will try to do, but I don’t want to know until it’s time. I’m sick of making my own decisions. They’re never the right ones. Ignorance is the sweetest medicine, my father used to say. I don’t want to know.”

Bayaz stared at him. It was the first time Logen had seen the First of the Magi look at all surprised. Malacus Quai cleared his throat. “I’d like to know,” he said in a small voice, looking hopefully up at his master.

“Yes,” murmured Bayaz, “but you don’t get to ask.”

It was around midday that it all went wrong. Logen was just starting to think that they might make it to the Whiteflow, maybe even live out the week. It felt as if he lost his concentration for just a moment. Unfortunately, it was the one moment that mattered.

Still, it was well done, you had to give them that. They’d chosen their spot carefully, and tied rags around their horse’s hooves, to muffle the sound. Threetrees might have seen it coming, if he’d been with them, but he had an eye for the ground like no other. The Dogman might have smelled them, if he’d been there, but he had the nose for it. The fact was, neither of them were there. The dead are no help at all.

There were three horsemen, waiting for them as they rounded a blind corner, well armed and armoured, dirty faces but clean weapons, veterans each man. The one on the right was thickset and powerful-looking, with almost no neck. The one on the left was tall and gaunt with small, hard eyes. Both of them had round helmets, coats of weathered mail, and long spears lowered and ready. Their leader sat on his horse like a bag of turnips, slouched in the saddle with the ease of the expert horseman. He nodded to Logen. “Ninefingers! The Brynn! The Bloody-Nine! It’s right good to see you again.”

“Blacktoe,” muttered Logen, forcing a friendly smile onto his face. “It’d warm my heart to see you too, if things were different.”

“But they are as they are.” The old warrior’s eyes moved slowly over Bayaz, Quai, and Logen as he spoke, taking in their weapons, or the lack of them, working out his game. A stupider opponent could have evened up the odds, but Blacktoe was a Named Man, and no fool. His eyes came to rest on Logen’s hand as it crept slowly across his body towards the hilt of his sword, and he shook his head slowly. “None of your tricks, Bloody-Nine. You can see we’ve got you.” And he nodded over at the trees behind them.

Logen’s heart sank even lower. Two more riders had appeared and were trotting forwards to complete the trap, their muffled hooves barely making a sound on the soft ground by the road. Logen chewed his lip. Blacktoe was right, damn him. The four horsemen closed in, lowered spear-points swaying, faces cold, minds set to the task. Malacus Quai stared at them with frightened eyes, his horse shying back. Bayaz smiled pleasantly as though they were his oldest friends. Logen would have liked a touch of the wizard’s composure. His own heart was hammering, his mouth was sour.

Blacktoe nudged his horse forward, one hand gripping the shaft of his axe, the other resting on his knee, not even using the reins. He was a masterful horseman, famous for it. That’s what happens when a man loses all his toes to the frost. Riding is quicker than walking, that has to be admitted, but when it came to fighting Logen preferred to keep his feet firmly on the ground. “Better be coming with us now,” said the old warrior, “better all round.”

Logen could hardly agree, but the odds were stacked high against him. A sword may have a voice, as Bayaz had said, but a spear is a damn good thing for poking a man off a horse, and there were four of them closing in around him. He was caught—outnumbered, off-guard, and with the wrong tools for the task. Yet again. Best to play for time, and hope some chance might show itself. Logen cleared his throat, doing his best to take the fear out of his voice. “Never thought you’d make your peace with Bethod, Blacktoe, not you.”

The old warrior scratched at his long, matted beard. “I was one of the last, truth be told, but I knelt in the end, same as all the rest. Can’t say I liked it any, but there it is. Best let me have the blade, Ninefingers.”

“What about Old Man Yawl? You telling me he bows to Bethod? Or did you just find a master to suit you better?”

Blacktoe didn’t get upset by the jibe, not in the least. He just looked sad, and tired. “Yawl’s dead, as though you didn’t know. Most of ’em are. Bethod doesn’t suit me much at all as a master, and nor do his sons. No man likes licking Scales fat arse, or Calder’s skinny one, you should know that. Now give up the sword, the day’s wasting and we’ve ground to cover. We can talk just as well with you unarmed.”

“Yawl’s dead?”

“Aye,” said Blacktoe suspiciously. “He offered Bethod a duel. Didn’t you hear? The Feared done for him.”

“Feared?”

“Where’ve you been, under a mountain?”

“More or less. What’s this Feared?”

“I don’t know what he is.” Blacktoe leaned from his saddle and spat in the grass. “I heard he’s not a man at all. They say that bitch Caurib dug him out from under a hill. Who knows? Leastways, he’s Bethod’s new champion, and far nastier even than the last, no offence.”

“None at all,” said Logen. The man with no neck had moved in close. A little too close perhaps, the point of his spear was hovering only a foot or two away. Close enough for Logen to grab a hold of. Maybe. “Old Man Yawl was a strong hand.”

“Aye. That’s why we followed him. But it done him no good. This Feared broke him. Broke him bad, like he was no more’n a dog. Left him alive, if you could call it that, so we could learn from his mistake, but he didn’t live long. Most of us knelt right then, those with wives and sons to think on. No sense in putting it off. There’s a few of them still, up in the mountains, who won’t bow to Bethod. That moon-worshipping madman Crummock-i-Phail and his hillmen, and a few beside. But not many. And those there are, Bethod’s got plans for.” Blacktoe held out a big, calloused hand. “Better let me have the blade, Bloody-Nine. Left hand only, if you please, slow as slow and none of your tricks. Better all round.”

So that was it. Out of time. Logen wrapped the three fingers of his left hand round the hilt of his sword, the cold metal pressing into his palm. The big man’s spear point edged a little closer. The tall one had relaxed a little, confident they had him. His spear was pointing up into the air, unready. There was no telling what the two behind were doing. The desire to glance over his shoulder was almost irresistible, but Logen forced himself to look ahead.

“I always had respect for you, Ninefingers, even though we stood on different sides. I’ve no feud with you. But Bethod wants vengeance, he’s drunk on it, and I swore to serve.” Blacktoe looked him sadly in the eye. “I’m sorry it’s me. For what it’s worth.”

“Likewise,” muttered Logen, “I’m sorry it’s you.” He slid the sword slowly from the scabbard. “For what it’s worth,” and he snapped his arm out, smashing the sword’s pommel into Blacktoe’s mouth. The old warrior gave a squawk as the dull metal crunched into his teeth and tumbled backwards out of the saddle, his axe flying from his hand and clattering into the road. Logen grabbed hold of the shaft of the big man’s spear, just below the blade.

“Go!” he bellowed at Quai, but the apprentice only stared back, blinking. The man with no neck pulled hard at the spear, nearly jerking Logen out of the saddle, but he kept his grip. He reared up in the stirrups, raising the sword high above his head. Neckless took one hand from his spear, his eyes going wide, and held it up on an instinct. Logen swung the sword down with all his strength.

He was shocked by the sharpness of it. It took the big man’s arm off just below the elbow then struck into his shoulder, cleaving through the fur and the mail beneath and splitting him to his stomach, near in half. Blood showered across the road, spattering in the face of Logen’s horse. It was trained for riding but not for war and it reared and span around, kicking and plunging in a panic. It was the best Logen could do to stay on top of the damn thing. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bayaz smack Quai’s horse on the rump, and it sped off with the apprentice bouncing in the saddle, the packhorse galloping along behind.

Then everything was a mess of plunging and snorting beasts, clashing and scraping metal, curses and cries. Battle. A familiar place, but no less terrifying for that. Logen clung to the reins with his right hand as his horse bucked and thrashed, swinging the sword wildly round his head, more to scare his enemies than hurt them. Every moment he expected the jolt and searing pain as he was stuck through with a spear, then the ground to rush up and smack him in the face.