“Master? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Malden said. “I’m a citizen of Ness, a free man. I’m traveling with a knight of the realm, Sir Croy. He’ll vouch for me if we just go inside and rouse him.”
The shire reeve chuckled. “You’ve got a silver tongue in your mouth, I’ll give you that. Most folk I catch can barely mumble the king’s speech. That must have helped you trick yon bunch into letting you ride on their wagon. Did you tell them all that guff about being a citizen? Do you think they really believed you? Look at you, son. You’re as thin as a switch, and near short as a dwarf. You’ve got the look all over you of one born poor. You can put on fancy city clothes if you like, too, yet it don’t make you a gentleman.”
Malden glanced to the left and the right, looking for a good escape route. Unfortunately none presented itself. The privy stood well off from the main building, and he doubted he could outrun the shire reeve. Yet if he could just get inside the milehouse, he knew he could wake the others and they would explain everything. If he could “Hold,” he said, thinking of something. “You say my master sent you? Pray tell, what was his name?”
“I should think you’d know that yourself,” the shire reeve said. “Prestwicke. His name is Prestwicke. He sent me word of your description, and coin to pay for your capture in advance. When I spied you last night I sent a message back. He’ll be here tomorrow to collect you-whether or not you can walk then.”
At the sound of the name Malden’s heart raced. He’d come all this way to get away from Prestwicke, but it seemed the assassin wasn’t going to give up that easily. He had no choice now but to escape. If Prestwicke came for him, he knew the bastard would never let him get away again. “Very well,” he forced himself to say. “I’ll go quietly. Just let me do one thing first.”
“Come now, what could you possibly hope to achieve by-”
“This,” Malden said. He drew his bodkin from his belt in one quick motion and flicked it toward the shire reeve’s face. It was no throwing knife-it had no edge, just a poorly sharpened point-and he knew better than to think it would actually hurt the man. The shire reeve didn’t know that, however, and as Malden had expected he flinched and took a step backward as the tiny knife flew past his ear.
It was just enough to ruin his balance. Malden rushed toward him with one shoulder down and caught him in the midriff, knocking him off his feet. He didn’t stop to admire his handiwork but kept running, across the road and into the field of wheat on the far side. Behind him he heard yelling but he didn’t bother listening too closely-he could guess what the shire reeve was shouting about.
The stalks of wheat, pale in the moonlight, bowed and bent aside as Malden hurtled through them. He would run a dozen yards and no more into the field then double back, he figured, and race for the door of the milehouse. Hopefully the shire reeve would get lost in the wheat while trying to stop him. Hopefully A sharp pain exploded across Malden’s buttocks. He was lucky he’d been doubled over, trying to keep his head down below the level of the wheat. If the hammer had taken him in the back it might have broken his spine. It was one of the worst blows he’d ever taken, and it sent him sprawling in the mud. His breath burst out of him and his hands grabbed at the yielding wheat as he tried to scrabble back up to his feet.
A boot pushed down on his back and ground him into the dirt.
“That,” the shire reeve said, “was a fool’s gambit. You think I never chased down some farmhand in a field before?”
Malden could think of several witty quips to come back with, but he lacked the breath to form them.
“I can see you’re a lively one,” the shire reeve said. “Well, I got a cure for that. Tell me, boy. Which knee you want to keep? Left or right?”
Malden fought and struggled and just managed to roll over onto his back. He looked up at the stars and the great shadow of the shire reeve above him, and the silhouette of the hammer in the man’s hand. His heart beat so fast in his chest he thought it might burst. “Please,” he begged. He’d spent much of his life as a thief waiting to be measured for a hangman’s noose. He’d thought often of what he would say to his executioner, what final words he would impart on the world. All that came out of his mouth now was, “Please.”
Even vain hopes are answered, sometimes.
There was a sound very much like the noise a scythe makes when it cuts through a sheaf of grain. A few drops of dark rain pattered on Malden’s cheek. And then the shire reeve’s head fell from his neck to land right in Malden’s lap. The man’s body stayed standing a moment longer, then slid to one side and crushed the wheat down flat.
Another shape was revealed behind it. A much larger shape, that of a man holding a massive bearded axe.
“The fool woke me up,” Morget said, “when he rapped on the wall with that little stick of his. I was enjoying my rest.”
The blood started flowing once more in Malden’s veins. It still ran cold, though.
No. Oh, no. It couldn’t be.
Not a shire reeve.
Among the criminal fraternity of Ness there was a certain understanding. Thieves occasionally fought one another. Sometimes footpads had to hurt someone to make their nightly wages. Every thief owned at least a knife, and often far more serious weapons, and they knew how to use them. But not even the most hardened thug in the Free City would think of attacking a watchman.
The agents of the law had their own fraternity, and they punished those who killed their own without mercy or question. If you slew a watchman, you were signing your own death warrant. They would never stop until they caught the killer.
And that was just for average everyday watchmen. The shire reeve was-had been-one of the most important officials of law in the entire kingdom.
If you killed a man like that, you might as well slit your own throat next. And Malden knew to a certainty that after the law dealt with Morget, they would come after him as an accomplice. The facts didn’t matter. The law would have its due.
“That might have been a foolish blow,” he said. “Though I do thank you for it.”
Morget squatted down a little and picked the head up from Malden’s lap. “No, it was a clean cut. Look.”
Malden shook his head. “Morget, that man was an official of the crown, and when he turns up missing they’ll hunt high and low for his killer. Nor will they think that disturbing your rest justified your crime.”
“Ha! Let them come. I’m afraid of no watchman.”
Malden shook his head. “Please, listen to me, friend. You know how to chop off men’s heads-I know about the law. We have to hide the body. Just to make sure it isn’t found until we’re long gone from here. Once we’re across the Strow, away from civilization, maybe we can breathe easy again.”
“Justice! Law!” Morget mocked. “Just words, little man.”
Oh, this was bad. Very, very bad. Malden could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He could feel sweat pooling in the small of his back. What if someone in the milehouse heard the shire reeve shouting? What if they were coming even now with torches and swords, looking to see what was the matter?
What if the shire reeve had told someone, anyone, about the peasant named Malden he was hunting? What if Prestwicke came in the morning and No. He couldn’t think about that. He couldn’t think at all, there was no time for it. He needed to act.
Malden got to his feet, then reached down to grab the shire reeve’s ankles. The shire reeve was bigger than he was, and Malden didn’t think he could drag the man very far on his own, but if Morget would just help “Catch,” the barbarian said.
It was all Malden could do to drop the dead man’s ankles and bring his hands up. He neatly caught the shire reeve’s severed head, then almost dropped it again when he realized what Morget had thrown to him.
The barbarian bent down and lifted the body easily, slinging it over his shoulder. “Where do you want it?” he asked.
“Deeper in the field is our best bet,” Malden said. “He won’t be d
iscovered until this place is harvested.”
Together they covered up all evidence of what had happened. The hardest part was washing the blood from his tunic. Malden was convinced the keeper of the milehouse would come out and demand to know what they were doing in his horse trough, but somehow they avoided detection.
When it was done, Morget returned to the stables, while Malden slipped inside and headed for the room he was supposed to share with Slag. He stopped outside the door and waited until he’d stopped shaking.
Inside, Slag was propped up on the mattress, reading by the light of a single candle. “Didn’t have the liver for it, eh?” the dwarf asked.
It took Malden a moment to realize what Slag meant. “Ah. No. I won’t be going to… to Helstrow, not now.” Not until he was sure the shire reeve’s death went unnoticed. Not while Prestwicke was out there somewhere, riding hard to catch up with him. All the horrors of an elfin crypt couldn’t match what his misbegotten fate came up with on its own. “I’m coming with you.”
“I thought as much,” Slag said.
“You did?”
“You’ll never leave Cythera behind. Not if it means losing her to Croy,” the dwarf told him, and tapped the side of his nose.
Malden knew he couldn’t tell anyone-not even Slag-what had happened, so he just said, “You’ve got me there, old man. You’ve got me dead to rights.”
Chapter Twenty-one
The horses screamed as water jumped over the side of the raft and licked at their feet, but Croy didn’t have time to soothe them. He was too busy pushing against a rock as big as a house that stuck up from the middle of the river Strow. Malden dipped his own pole in the water and added his strength, and between the two of them they managed to get the raft moving away from the boulder.
“Slag, are you sure this thing will hold together?” Cythera asked, fear pitching her voice high.
“Yes, I am fucking sure,” the dwarf shouted back. Slag grabbed at one of the taut ropes attached to the mast as they were all swung about by the current.
Croy had planned on building a traditional raft, a square platform of logs lashed together, but the dwarf insisted he knew a better way. The thing he’d constructed looked more like a spider’s web, with logs radiating out from a central upright mast. Ropes hanging down from the mast braced each log, allowing them to move back and forth and even up and down as the water surged beneath them.
“Another rock!” Cythera cried.
Croy shoved his pole down into the stony bed of the river and heaved once more. On the far side of the raft Morget howled some barbarian war cry and leaned across the water, pushing them clear with his arms. The raft spun around on the axis of its mast like a wagon wheel, and the sky and the land flashed around Croy until his head felt light, but suddenly Cythera was laughing and the dwarf was jumping up and down, pointing at the far bank. It was only a few yards away. Croy jumped down into the water with a rope and tied off to a boulder there, his blood singing in his veins. He heaved against his line, and the raft beached on a bank of pebbles and sparse grass. Cythera untied the horses and they bolted gratefully for dry land.
Once everyone was safely ashore, Croy dragged their supplies off the raft and then fell back into a patch of grass and just stared up at the sky for a while, glad to be alive. “I didn’t think we’d make it,” he said when he had the strength to sit up again.
The knight rubbed at his wet face and looked around. He found himself on a grassy verge shaded by tall trees. The sun had just come up-for some reason, Malden and Morget both wanted to get an early start, and they crossed the river in the first blue light of dawn. Under the canopy of leaves it might still have been night.
“I’m soaked to the skin,” Cythera said, reaching for a horse blanket. “We should get a fire going and dry our clothes. Croy. If you please.”
“Hmm?”
“I’m going to disrobe,” she said, shaking out the blanket.
“Oh, yes?” He tried to look innocent.
“You could at least turn your back,” she said.
“I thought, perhaps, as we are betrothed, you might allow me to
…” He couldn’t bring himself to say the rest. Especially with the way she stared at him.
“Stop thinking of me as your wife,” she said. “At least until we return to Ness. I won’t give you any excuse to send me home, not now. If you start thinking you’re my master, you’ll think you can order me around. Now. Turn your back.”
Croy did as he was told. What choice did he have? It was clear Cythera intended to see this adventure through, regardless of how it made him feel. His back burned as if he felt her eyes on him. When she was finished and told him he could turn around again, he saw she was wrapped completely in the blanket, with only her feet exposed.
They were lovely feet.
He went to see to the horses. The animals looked grateful to be back on dry land, but still they whickered and bucked when Croy approached them. Malden came up behind him, standing well back, as if afraid of being kicked.
“Did we truly need to sell the wagon? With Slag’s improvements, that was probably the most valuable piece of cartage in Skrae,” Malden pointed out. “Are you sure we got good value for it?”
Croy laughed and nodded. Where they were going next there were no proper roads, and they would have spent more time pulling the wagon out of mud or levering it over tree roots than they did traveling. “For Slag, I found this pony,” he said, pointing out the piebald colt. “A good courser for Cythera. And for you, a jennet.”
Malden approached the indicated horse with a look of distinct fear. The roan looked back at him with pure apathy. The thief reached out tentatively to touch the animal’s forelock but the jennet snorted and he yanked his hand away. “You got me a horse,” he said. “Croy, I’m afraid to tell you this, but I never learned how to ride.”
“I assumed as much, and so chose the gentlest, most kindly dispositioned animal I could find. Don’t worry. She’ll do all the work. You just need to hang on.”
“Well,” Malden said, taking a step back, “I’ll do my best.”
“I have something else for you as well,” Croy said with a sly grin. He’d been waiting a long time for this.
He went over to where their supplies were piled in a heap and took out a long bundle wrapped in oilcloth. “You didn’t need this back when we were in civilized country, but now we’re properly in the wilderness I want you to have it.” He unwrapped the bundle to reveal a sword in a thick scabbard. He held it out toward Malden in both hands.
“Ah,” Malden said. “A sword. I don’t think I want to wear a-”
“Not just any sword,” Croy said. “I believe you know this one.” He drew the sword carefully from its special glass-lined sheath. In the firelight it looked ragged and notched, and when it caught the light the blade was revealed as nothing more than a corroded and pitted bar of iron with a weathered point. As soon as it was exposed to the air, however, glistening drops of fuming liquid began to break out upon its length, like steaming sweat.
“Acidtongue,” Malden whispered.
The name was said loud enough to get Morget’s attention. The barbarian had been chopping firewood. Now he stormed over to where Croy and Malden stood. He stared with open and unaffected lust at the eroded sword.
“One of the seven,” Morget thundered. “Another Ancient Blade! You had this the whole time, Croy, and never mentioned it to me?”
“It is not mine to speak for,” Croy explained. “Its previous wielder, Bikker, was my teacher. I was forced to slay him in a duel of honor. Now I seek a proper replacement, someone I can train in its use. I’ve had Malden in mind for a long while.”
“Me?” Malden asked. “But-why? I’m no knight. I’m barely a free man, as far as the law is concerned. And I’ve never waved a sword around in my life.”
Croy nodded solemnly. He had known that Malden would doubt himself. Humility was a great virtue, one of the hardest for a knight to keep. Mal
den, with his low birth, would have an advantage there. “Traditionally it is knights who wield the swords. That makes sense-knights are trained in the use of such weapons, often trained from birth, as I was. My first toy was a wooden sword, did you know that? You, Malden, were born to a different estate. You were never trained for this. Yet this is not, as you say, the first time you’ve ever waved a sword around. You did it once before-with this particular blade.”
The thief blanched, but he nodded. “I suppose I did.”
“This runt?” Morget asked. “Could he even lift a sword, if he had one to hand? I think it unlikely.”
“You weren’t there,” Croy said. “Together, Malden and I faced the most powerful sorcerer in Skrae. A magician who thought nothing of summoning demons to do his bidding. One such creature was sent to hunt down Malden and destroy him. I wounded the beast with Ghostcutter, but I was too fatigued and injured to finish the job. Malden had to take up Acidtongue then and slay the beast. He did it without thinking, without hesitation. I’ve never seen such courage.”
“It was that or let the thing eat me,” Malden said. “I was so scared I thought I might soil my-”
Morget chuckled. “You think there’s some difference, little man, between terror and bravery? They’re like the moon in its phases. Sometimes it waxes, and sometimes it wanes, but it’s always there, all of it. We just don’t see it all.”
“Since that day,” Croy went on, “you’ve shown true courage often enough-not least of all when you agreed to come with us on this quest. If we’re going to fight a demon-if you’re going to become one of us and pledge your life to fighting them-this is the perfect opportunity to start learning how.”
“You want me to become an Ancient Blade,” Malden said. “Like you.” The thief didn’t seem to believe it was even possible.
The knight and the barbarian looked at Malden expectantly.
“I’m not meant for your squire, friend,” Malden insisted. “I’m not really the sword-slinging type. Please, I thank you, truly, but-”
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