The First Law Trilogy Boxed Set: The Blade Itself, Before They Are Hanged, Last Argument of Kings

by Joe Abercrombie

  He looked over at Ferro, and she looked back. She didn’t frown, she didn’t smile. He’d never been much at understanding women, of course, or anyone else, but Ferro was some new kind of riddle. She acted just as cold and angry by day as she ever had, but most nights now she still seemed to find her way under his blanket. He didn’t understand it and he didn’t dare ask. The sad fact was, she was about the best thing he’d had in his life for a long time. He puffed his cheeks out and scratched his head. That didn’t say much for his life, now he thought about it.

  They found a kind of cave at the base of the cliffs. More of a hollow really, in the lee of two great boulders, where the wind didn’t blast quite so strongly. Not much of a place for a conversation, but the island was a wasteland and Logen saw little chance of finding a better. You have to be realistic, after all.

  Ferro took her sword to a stunted tree nearby and soon they had enough sticks to make an effort at a flame. Logen hunched over and fumbled the tinderbox out with numb fingers. Draughts blew in around the rocks and the wood was damp, but after much cursing and fumbling with the flint he finally managed to light a fire fit for the purpose. They huddled in around it.

  ‘Bring out the box,’ said Bayaz, and Logen hauled the heavy thing out from his pack and set it down next to Ferro with a grunt. Bayaz felt around its edge with his fingertips, found some hidden catch and the lid lifted silently. There were a set of metal coils underneath, pointing in from all sides to leave a space the size of Logen’s fist.

  ‘What are they for?’ he asked.

  ‘To keep what is inside still and well-cushioned.’

  ‘It needs to be cushioned?’

  ‘Kanedias thought so.’ That answer did not make Logen feel any better. ‘Place it inside as soon as you are able,’ said the Magus, turning to Ferro. ‘We do not wish to be exposed to it for longer than we must. It is best that you all keep your distance.’ And he ushered the others back with his palms. Luthar and Longfoot nearly scrambled over each other in their eagerness to get away, but Quai’s eyes were fixed on the preparations and he scarcely moved.

  Logen sat cross-legged in front of the flickering fire, feeling the weight of worry in his stomach growing steadily heavier. He was starting to regret ever getting involved with this business, but it was a bit late now for second thoughts. ‘Something to offer them will help,’ he said, looking round, and found Bayaz already holding a metal flask out. Logen unscrewed the cap and took a sniff. The smell of strong spirits greeted his nostrils like a sorely missed lover. ‘You had this all the time?’

  Bayaz nodded. ‘For this very purpose.’

  ‘Wish I’d known. I could’ve put it to good use more than once.’

  ‘You can put it to good use now.’

  ‘Not quite the same thing.’ Logen tipped the flask up and took a mouthful, resisted a powerful urge to swallow, puffed out his cheeks and blew it out in a mist over the fire, sending up a gout of flame.

  ‘And now?’ asked Bayaz.

  ‘Now we wait. We wait until—’

  ‘I am here, Ninefingers.’ A voice like the wind through the rocks, like the stones falling from the cliffs, like the sea draining through the gravel. The spirit loomed over them in their shallow cave among the stones, a moving pile of grey rock as tall as two men, casting no shadow.

  Logen raised his eyebrows. The spirits never answered promptly, if they bothered to answer at all. ‘That was quick.’

  ‘I have been waiting.’

  ‘A long time, I reckon.’ The spirit nodded. ‘Well, er, we’ve come for—’

  ‘For that thing that the sons of Euz entrusted to me. There must be desperate business in the world of men for you to seek it out.’

  Logen swallowed. ‘When isn’t there?’

  ‘Do you see anything?’ Jezal whispered behind him.

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Longfoot. ‘It is indeed a most remarkable—’

  ‘Shut your mouths!’ snarled Bayaz over his shoulder.

  The spirit loomed down close over him. ‘This is the First of the Magi?’

  ‘It is,’ said Logen, keeping the talk to the point.

  ‘He is shorter than Juvens. I do not like his look.’

  ‘What does it say?’ snapped Bayaz impatiently, staring into the air well to the left of the spirit.

  Logen scratched his face. ‘It says that Juvens was tall.’

  ‘Tall? What of it? Get what we came for and let us be gone!’

  ‘He is impatient,’ rumbled the spirit.

  ‘We’ve come a long way. He has Juvens’ staff.’

  The spirit nodded. ‘The dead branch is familiar to me. I am glad. I have held this thing for long winters, and it has been a heavy weight to carry. Now I will sleep.’

  ‘Good idea. If you could—’

  ‘I will give it to the woman.’

  The spirit dug its hand into its stony stomach and Logen shuffled back warily. The fist emerged, and something was clutched inside, and he felt himself shiver as he saw it.

  ‘Hold your hands out,’ he muttered to Ferro.

  Jezal gave an involuntary gasp and scrambled away as the thing dropped down into Ferro’s waiting palms, raising an arm to shield his face, his mouth hanging open with horror. Bayaz stared, eyes wide. Quai craned eagerly forward. Logen grimaced and rocked back. Longfoot scrambled almost all the way out of the hollow. For a long moment all six of them stared at the dark object in Ferro’s hands, no one moving, no one speaking, no sound except for the keening wind. There it was, before them. That thing which they had come so far, and braved so many dangers to find. That thing which Glustrod dug from the deep earth long years ago. That thing which had made a blasted ruin of the greatest city in the world.

  The Seed. The Other Side, made flesh. The very stuff of magic.

  Then Ferro slowly began to frown. ‘This is it?’ she asked doubtfully. ‘This is the thing that will turn Shaffa to dust?’

  It did, in fact, now that Jezal was overcoming the shock of its sudden appearance, look like nothing more than a stone. A chunk of unremarkable grey rock the size of a big fist. No sense of unearthly danger washed from it. No deadly power was evident. No withering rays or stabs of lightning shot forth. It did, in fact, look like nothing more than a stone.

  Bayaz blinked. He shuffled closer, on his hands and knees. He peered down at the object in Ferro’s palms. He licked his lips, lifting his hand ever so slowly while Jezal watched, his heart pounding in his ears. Bayaz touched the rock with his little finger tip then jerked it instantly back. He did not suddenly wither and expire. He probed it once more with his finger. There was no thunderous detonation. He pressed his palm upon it. He closed his thick fingers round it. He lifted it up. And still, it looked like nothing more than a stone.

  The First of the Magi stared down at the thing in his hand, his eyes growing wider and wider. ‘This is not it,’ he whispered, his lip trembling. ‘This is just a stone!’

  There was a stunned silence. Jezal stared at Logen, and the Northman gazed back, scarred face slack with confusion. Jezal stared at Longfoot, and the Navigator could only shrug his bony shoulders. Jezal stared at Ferro, and he watched her frown grow harder and harder. ‘Just a stone?’ she muttered.

  ‘Not it?’ hissed Quai.

  ‘Then . . .’ The meaning of Bayaz’ words was only just starting to sink into Jezal’s mind. ‘I came all this way . . . for nothing?’ A sudden gust blew up, snuffing out the miserable tongue of flame and blowing grit in his face.

  ‘Perhaps there is some mistake,’ ventured Longfoot. ‘Perhaps there is another spirit, perhaps there is another—’

  ‘No mistake,’ said Logen, firmly shaking his head.

  ‘But . . .’ Quai’s eyes were bulging from his ashen face. ‘But . . . how?’

  Bayaz ignored him, muscles working on the side of his head. ‘Kanedias. His hand is in this. He found some way to trick his brothers, and switch this lump of nothing for the Seed, and keep it for himself. Even in death, the Maker
denies me!’

  ‘Just a stone?’ growled Ferro.

  ‘I gave up my chance to fight for my country,’ murmured Jezal, indignation starting to flicker up in his chest, ‘and I slogged hundreds of miles across the wasteland, and I was beaten, and broken, and left scarred . . . for nothing?’

  ‘The Seed.’ Quai’s pale lips were curling back from his teeth, his breath snorting fast through his nose. ‘Where is it? Where?’

  ‘If I knew that,’ barked his master, ‘do you suppose we would be sitting here on this forsaken island, bantering with spirits for a chunk of worthless rock?’ And he lifted his arm and dashed the stone furiously onto the ground. It cracked open and split into fragments, and they bounced, and tumbled, and clattered down among a hundred others, a thousand others, a million others the same.

  ‘It’s not here.’ Logen shook his head sadly. ‘Say one thing for—’

  ‘Just a stone?’ snarled Ferro, her eyes swivelling from the fallen chunks of rock to Bayaz’ face. ‘You fucking old liar!’ She sprang up, fists clenched tight by her sides. ‘You promised me vengeance! ’

  Bayaz rounded on her, his face twisted with rage. ‘You think I have no greater worries than your vengeance?’ he roared, flecks of spit flying from his lips and out into the rushing gale. ‘Or your disappointment?’ he screamed in Quai’s face, veins bulging in his neck. ‘Or your fucking looks?’ Jezal swallowed and faded back into the hollow, trying to seem as small as he possibly could, his own anger extinguished by Bayaz’ towering rage as sharply as the meagre fire had been by the blasting wind a moment before. ‘Tricked!’ snarled the First of the Magi, his hands opening and closing with aimless fury. ‘With what now will I fight Khalul?’

  Jezal winced and cowered, sure at any moment that one of the party would be ripped apart, or be flung through the air and dashed on the rocks, or would burst into brilliant flames, quite possibly him. Brother Longfoot chose a poor moment to try and calm matters. ‘We should not be downhearted, my comrades! The journey is its own reward—’

  ‘Say that once more, you shaven dolt!’ hissed Bayaz. ‘Only once more, and I’ll make ashes of you!’ The Navigator shrank trembling away, and the Magus snatched up his staff and stalked off, down from the hollow towards the beach, his coat flailing around him in the bitter wind. So terrible had his fury been that, for a brief moment, the idea of staying on the island seemed preferable to getting back into a boat with him.

  It was with that ill-tempered outburst, Jezal supposed, that their quest was declared an utter failure.

  ‘Well then,’ murmured Logen, after they had all sat in the wind for a while longer. ‘I reckon that’s it.’ He snapped the lid of the Maker’s empty box shut. ‘No point crying about it. You have to be—’

  ‘Shut your fucking mouth, fool!’ snarled Ferro at him. ‘Don’t tell me what I have to be!’ And she strode out of the hollow and down towards the hissing sea.

  Logen winced as he pushed the box back into his pack, sighed as he swung it up onto his shoulder. ‘Realistic,’ he muttered, then set off after her. Longfoot and Quai came next, all sullen anger and silent disappointment. Jezal came up the rear, stepping from one jagged stone to another, eyes nearly shut against the wind, turning the whole business over in his mind. The mood might have been deathly sombre, but as he picked his way back towards the boat, he found to his surprise that he was almost unable to keep the smile from his face. After all, success or failure in this mad venture had never really meant anything to him. All that mattered was that he was on his way home.

  The water slapped against the prow, throwing up cold white spray. The sailcloth bulged and snapped, the beams and the ropes creaked. The wind whipped at Ferro’s face but she narrowed her eyes and ignored it. Bayaz had gone below decks in a fury and one by one the others had followed him out of the cold. Only she and Ninefingers stayed there, looking down at the sea.

  ‘What will you do now?’ he asked her.

  ‘Go wherever I can kill the Gurkish.’ She snapped it without thinking. ‘I will find other weapons and fight them wherever I can.’ She hardly even knew if it was true. It was hard to feel the hatred as she had done. It no longer seemed so important a matter if the Gurkish were left to their business, and she to hers, but her doubts and her disappointment only made her bark it the more fiercely. ‘Nothing has changed. I still need vengeance.’

  Silence.

  She glanced sideways, and she saw Ninefingers frowning down at the pale foam on the dark water, as if her answer had not been the one he had been hoping for. It would have been easy to change it. ‘I’ll go where you go,’ she could have said, and who would have been worse off? No one. Certainly not her. But Ferro did not have it in her to put herself in his power like that. Now it came to the test there was an invisible wall between them. One that there was no crossing.

  There always had been.

  All she could say was, ‘You?’ He seemed to think about it a while, angry-looking, chewing at his lip. ‘I should go back to the North.’ He said it unhappily, without even looking at her. ‘There’s work there I should never have left. Dark work, that needs doing. That’s where I’ll go, I reckon. Back to the North, and settle me some scores.’

  She frowned. Scores? Who was it told her you had to have more than vengeance. Now scores was all he wanted? Lying bastard. ‘Scores,’ she hissed. ‘Good.’

  And the word was sour as sand on her tongue.

  He looked her in the eye for a long moment. He opened his mouth, as if he was about to speak, and he stayed there, his lips formed into a word, one hand part-way lifted towards her.

  Then he seemed suddenly to slump, and he set his jaw, and he turned his shoulder to her and leaned back on the rail. ‘Good.’

  And that easily it was all done between them.

  Ferro scowled as she turned away. She curled up her fists and felt her nails digging into her palms, furious hard. She cursed to herself, and bitterly. Why could she not have said different words? Some breath, and a shape of the mouth, and everything is changed. It would have been easy.

  Except that Ferro did not have it in her, and she knew she never would have. The Gurkish had killed that part of her, far away, and long ago, and left her dead inside. She had been a fool to hope, and in her bones she had known it all along.

  Hope is for the weak.

  Back to the Mud

  Dogman and Dow, Tul and Grim, West and Pike. Six of them, stood in a circle and looking down at two piles of cold earth. Below in the valley, the Union were busy burying their own dead, Dogman had seen it. Hundreds of ’em, in pits for a dozen each. It was a bad day for men, all in all, and a good one for the ground. Always the way, after a battle. Only the ground wins.

  Shivers and his Carls were just through the trees, heads bowed, burying their own. Twelve in the earth already, three more wounded bad enough they’d most likely follow before the week was out, and another that’d lost his hand – might live, might not, depending on his luck. Luck hadn’t been good lately. Near half their number dead in one day’s work. Brave of ’em to stick after that. Dogman could hear their words. Sad words and proud, for the fallen. How they’d been good men, how they’d fought well, how bad they’d be missed and all the rest. Always the way, after a battle. Words for the dead.

  Dogman swallowed and looked back to the fresh turned dirt at his feet. Tough work digging, in the cold, ground frozen hard. Still, you’re better off digging than getting buried, Logen would’ve said, and the Dogman reckoned that was right enough. Two people he’d just finished burying, and two parts of himself along with ’em. Cathil deep down under the piled-up dirt, stretched out white and cold and would never be warm again. Threetrees not far from her, his broken shield across his knees and his sword in his fist. Two sets of hopes Dogman had put in the mud – some hopes for the future, and some hopes from the past. All done now, and would never come to nothing, and they left an aching hole in him. Always the way, after a battle. Hopes in the mud.

  ‘Bu
ried where they died,’ said Tul softly. ‘That’s fitting. That’s good.’

  ‘Good?’ barked Dow, glaring over at West. ‘Good, is it? Safest place in the whole battle? Safest place, did you tell ’em?’ West swallowed and looked down, guilty seeming.

  ‘Alright, Dow,’ said Tul. ‘You know better than to blame him for this, or anyone else. It’s a battle. Folk die. Threetrees knew that well enough, none better.’

  ‘We could’ve been somewhere else,’ growled Dow.

  ‘We could’ve been,’ said Dogman, ‘but we weren’t, and there it is. No changing it, is there? Threetrees is dead, and the girl’s dead, and that’s hard enough for everyone. Don’t need you adding to the burden.’

  Dow’s fists bunched up and he took a deep breath in like he was about to shout something. Then he let it out, and his shoulders sagged, and his head fell. ‘You’re right. Nothing to be done, now.’

  Dogman reached out and touched Pike on his arm. ‘You want to say something for her?’ The burned man looked at him, then shook his head. He wasn’t much for speaking, the Dogman reckoned, and he hardly blamed him. Didn’t look like West was about to say nothing either, so Dogman cleared his throat, wincing at the pain across his ribs, and tried it himself. Someone had to.

  ‘This girl we buried here, Cathil was her name. Can’t say I knew her too long, or nothing, but what I knew I liked . . . for what that’s worth. Not much I reckon. Not much. But she had some bones to her, I guess we all saw that on the way north. Took the cold and the hunger and the rest and never grumbled. Wish I’d known her better. Hoped to, but, well, don’t often get what you hope for. She weren’t one of us, really, but she died with us, so I reckon we’re proud to have her in the ground with ours.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Dow. ‘Proud to have her.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Tul. ‘Ground takes everyone the same.’