by Tim Pratt
"May I draw my sword?" Rodrick said. "Or, if you prefer, you may draw it yourself. It's just easier to show you than to try to explain."
The young swordlord had his blade drawn and pointed at Rodrick's throat in the space of a breath. "Draw, then. But do not attempt to strike me, or ..."
"Yes, the threat is fairly obvious with the blade you have pointed at my neck. No need to spell it out." Rodrick reached slowly behind him and drew Hrym from his scabbard.
"A magical sword," Piero said. He stepped back, but didn't lower his guard. "Of shimmering ice, no less. How did a priest's bodyguard come to hold something like that?"
Rodrick shrugged. "Via truly vast sums of money, of course. I do all sorts of work, for whoever can pay my rate."
"I don't," Hrym said. "I do just one sort of work: killing people."
"The sword talks." Piero frowned. "I have heard of such things, of course, but never seen one. You have a true mind inside your steel, sword?"
"What steel are you talking about? I am ice. My name is Hrym, boy, and my mind is likely truer than yours."
Piero raised an eyebrow. "Boy?"
"Don't take it personally," Rodrick soothed. "Hrym is thousands of years old. He thinks everyone is a boy. Or a girl. At least he didn't call you girl."
The tip of Piero's blade twitched, but that was all. Good. He was intrigued enough to bear the occasional insult. "Magical swords are for the weak," Piero said. "A true swordsman trusts only his own skill, and his blade is not a companion or an ally, but an extension of himself."
"Luckily, I am not a true swordsman," Rodrick said. "I am a man who kills people for money. So when the opportunity to join forces with a talking sword of living ice came along, I didn't have to wrestle with any sort of internal conflict. Now, Hrym—I believe you had a counterproposal?"
"Yes," Hrym said. "Piero: I'll fight you for it."
"You. Will fight me," Piero said. "For ...what?"
"The pitcher, boy, obviously," Hrym said.
Piero lifted his blade.
"Hold now!" Rodrick said. "Who do you plan to hit with that? I'm just the man holding the sword, here, and striking me down won't shut him up, believe me. I didn't even want to come, but Hrym—well, I owe him my life many times over, and my livelihood at this very moment, so here I am."
"Your father had guts, by all accounts," Hrym said. "And he liked a good wager, I hear. But not you, eh? No surprise. Each generation gets weaker, the blood turns to water and gets thinned out."
"I will not be goaded, sword," Piero said, but he put his weapon away and stroked his horrible beard. "The proposal is intriguing. Can you fight on your own? What I mean is, can you ...fly, move about, without a wielder?"
"Everyone always asks that," Hrym said. "Would I tolerate this mercenary carrying me around everywhere if I could fly?"
Piero nodded. "All right. If we had this fight, who would be your wielder?"
"Oh, Rodrick will do," Hrym said. "But make no mistake, you're fighting me, not him. It doesn't matter what horse the knight rides—you're fighting the knight, not the mount."
"Hey," Rodrick said. "I'd rather not be referred to as a ‘mount' by someone with such a masculine voice, Hrym."
Piero ignored him. "There is still a marked disadvantage, Hrym. You are magical. I can guess at the nature of your magic. What would prevent you from shattering my steel?"
"Nothing," Hrym said. "That's precisely what I'd do. That's sort of the point. Did you want to concede before we get started? It would be disappointing, but ..."
"No, I'm merely pondering how to nullify your magical advantages ..."
"Oh, have a wizard wrap you in wards," Hrym said. "Or make us fight in the heart of a volcano. Get a magical sword of your own. Bring ten of your friends and give them pots of alchemical fire to throw at me while we duel. I don't care. I'll still freeze your blood where you stand."
"I would object to the volcano," Rodrick said. "The one with alchemical fire doesn't thrill me either."
"It would rather add to my stature, to defeat a magical sword that speaks," Piero said, pacing up and down, clearly thinking furiously. "We can hardly fight to first blood, though, as you don't bleed, and drawing blood from your wielder would be trivial. Fighting to the death is likewise difficult, as you don't die as men do."
"I say we fight until one of us yields," Hrym said. "Or is no longer able to fight, or until an impartial judge deems one of us the clear winner. Fair enough?"
"I believe so, yes. We can refine the details. And if you win, you get the pitcher. What do I get when you lose?"
"What do you want?"
"I wouldn't mind having you, Hrym," Piero said. "I would hang you up above my mantelpiece, and keep a fire roaring there beneath you, night and day, and make sure no warrior ever wielded you again—because magical swords are offensive to all true swordsmen."
"Hrym," Rodrick said, putting just the right amount of doubt into his voice. "Really, the priest isn't paying us that much, is it really worth—"
"Do you wish to withdraw your challenge?" Piero said.
"Of course not," Hrym said gruffly. "Rodrick, you worry too much. What do you think he'll do, find a magical sword made of lava or something? Sell his soul to a flame elemental? The man doesn't have a chance."
"I'll need a few days to prepare," Piero said. "Shall we meet three days hence, at midday, at my dueling school?"
"Outside would be better," Hrym said. "Unless you don't mind the building being destroyed."
"In the courtyard, then," Piero said, without hesitation.
∗ ∗ ∗
There wasn't much for them to do in the next days, as things had already been set in motion. It was always possible their plans would fizzle, or that Piero wouldn't take the bait, or would be less arrogant than Rodrick expected, and would grow suspicious of his good fortune. It was a good scam, but not an ironclad one, because Rodrick hadn't been given enough time to work out every angle, and he was dependent on Zaqen's contacts in the city for certain aspects of the plan, and who knew if they could be counted on?
On the second day after Hrym challenged Piero, Obed barged into Rodrick's room, where he was playing dice with Zaqen for imaginary stakes, and declared that he could wait no longer. "I am taking Cilian with me to acquire another of the keys. You will join me after you recover the pitcher."
"Master, are you sure that's wise?" Zaqen said. "Isn't it dangerous to go without Hrym, and me, and, ah, Rodrick?"
"Thank you for including me in that," Rodrick said. "I do love feeling like part of the team."
"I am going into the Gronzi Forest, where the key is said to be buried beneath a certain stone altar, long forgotten." Obed sniffed. "Rodrick would only trip over tree roots, and you are needed here—if the sword's clever plan fails, you are responsible for the backup plan."
"Killing Piero and trying to find the pitcher myself, somehow." She sighed. "Yes, master. I still worry ..."
"Cilian will provide sufficient protection—the woods are his domain, after all. And you act as though I am without resources of my own, servant. You know I am not. When you are done here, wait for me in New Stetven, at that inn you found—"
"The Flaming Riders." Zaqen glanced at Rodrick. "The city of Old Stetven was destroyed by red dragons. The inn is named for a group of knights who continued trying to charge the dragon even after its breath set them aflame."
"Oh?" Rodrick said. "How did that work out for them?"
"They died horribly, of course. But they still would have died horribly if they'd pissed themselves and run away in terror instead. At least this way they got an inn named after them."
"I'm sure it's a comfort. All right, Obed, we'll meet you at the inn, and we'll come bearing the pitcher of endless waters, which is actually a key to help us recover something else, which you haven't ever named or described."
"Yes, you will." Obed stomped away.
Rodrick leaned back in his chair and smiled. "Ah. I feel more relaxed already
. It's like when I was a boy and my father would go off on a three-day drunk and leave me to entertain myself in peace."
"I hope he's all right." Zaqen looked at the closed door anxiously. "My master is very confident, but he's a man of the sea, not the forest."
"Cilian's a good killer, and he thinks Obed is linked to his destiny. I'm sure they'll be fine."
"You don't know about that forest," she said. "The locals just call it ‘The Forest,' as if it's the only one—and it is the only one that matters. The outskirts are preyed upon by bandits, and in the deep woods, there are dangers so ancient they're little more than rumors, because people don't often come out alive and sane with reliable reports. Since my master brought me into service, I have been away from him before, of course, but at those times he was always in the sea, where he is safe, and powerful ..."
"Do you love him?" Rodrick said, his tone gentle.
"Obed is arrogant, zealous, pigheaded, ruthless, and would sacrifice my life in an instant if it furthered even one of his minor goals. And, in addition, we're not even the same species." She sighed and picked up the dice cup. "Of course I love him."
"Moving swiftly past that awkward subject," Rodrick said, "have you heard from your friend the wizard?"
"He's less a friend and more a person we've paid a great sum of money. The weapon is ready, the golem is in readiness, and Piero is supposed to meet them this afternoon."
"Young Piero must be feeling pretty pleased with himself right now, plotting our doom," Rodrick said.
"Poor bastard," Hrym said from his bed of coins on the dresser. "He has no idea I'm a brilliant tactician as well as a beautiful magical weapon."
"Brilliant!" Rodrick said. "You just combined my trick to intimidate a gladiator with my old scam where we sold people fake replicas of you. I'm not sure putting two of my ideas together qualifies you as brilliant—"
"The first person to combine chili spice and chocolate was brilliant," Zaqen said. "Would you deny that?"
"And I did come up with the fire angle," Hrym said. "And the name. The name is all mine."
"It is a pretty good name," Rodrick admitted.
Chapter Seventeen
Swords and Fire Magic
They met in the inner courtyard of Bartolo's School of Swordplay, which Piero hadn't gotten around to renaming in his own honor yet, apparently. The courtyard was surrounded by high walls, and ringing those walls stood at least seventy of Piero's students, all armed, many with their own hideous imitations of Piero's hideous goatee, most grinning.
As for the fighting area itself, the courtyard was full of treacherous loose cobblestones, tree roots bursting up between the cracks, patches of uneven ground, and mysterious slick puddled sections. "I don't think I could walk across this courtyard without breaking my ankle," Rodrick said.
Hrym, still sheathed (to the crowd's shouted disappointment), said, "So just stand still. You shouldn't have to do much."
Zaqen was acting as his second, which in this case meant she stood near him, smiling widely at Piero's students, making many of them immensely uncomfortable. Something about the way her eyes seemed to move independently of one another appeared to unnerve them. Rodrick couldn't imagine why. He'd gotten used to it ages ago.
After a few moments, there was a murmur among the students, and a few of them parted to allow a newcomer through. It wasn't Piero, though—it was a seven-foot-tall golem of sooty gray stone, its body human but its face almost featureless, as if worn smooth by centuries of weather. The golem held both hands before it, and in those hands it carried a scabbard of deepest red, from which protruded a hilt of black leather wrapped in yellow cord.
"Oh, bugger me," Rodrick said, making sure his voice carried to all the students. "That's Magnos the Ash Lord."
"What?" Hrym squawked, voice audible despite the muffling sheath. "Show me!"
Rodrick drew the blade and held Hrym before him. The students gasped at the gleaming ice blade, but only for an instant, because all their attention shifted as soon as Piero sauntered into the courtyard. He was followed by his second, who carried a small pitcher of blue stone: Obed's first key. "Welcome, students. And welcome, Hrym, my challenger. And, of course, a special welcome to my new friend, Magnos the Ash Lord."
The golem drew the sword from its scabbard, and presented it in guard position. A constant cascade of red, yellow, and blue flames flickered up and down the length of the blade, which was nearly a twin to Hrym's in length and shape—fire to his ice. "My old enemy," the flame sword said, his voice high-pitched, nearly a shriek—a bit too theatrical, really, to Rodrick's ear, but you worked with what you could find on short notice. "Today we end our long war."
"Magnos," Hrym said. "Is that a new golem?"
"The last one was burned, of course," Magnos shrilled. "As they all are, in time, melting in the presence of my glory. Is that a new human wielding you? You shame our kind, Hrym, by making yourself a thrall to a mortal man."
"You're the freak, Magnos," Hrym said. "Even Vaperia has human wielders—"
"Vaperia the Air-Blade does let herself be polluted by mortal touch," Magnos said. "But at least she dominates her wielders and makes them into her mind-slaves. You let yourself be carried by a shaven ape with a will of his own."
"The name is Rodrick." He clucked his tongue. "Really, Piero, isn't this cheating? Hrym challenged you, not Magnos—"
"The terms of the duel were made explicit," Piero said. "I was welcome to use a magical sword of my own, remember? No one said the sword was not allowed to be sentient. Magnos assures me that his powers are the equal of Hrym's."
"Exactly the equal," Hrym murmured. "In all the long centuries through which we've clashed, our powers have never been anything but evenly matched."
"With the magical elements essentially canceling one another out, this will come down to a duel of skill." Piero showed his teeth in a smile. "Do you wish to concede? I have just the place on my wall to hang you, Hrym."
"We'll fight, damn you!" Hrym shouted.
"This ends now!" Magnos declared.
"Well, that's me dead then," Rodrick said, and lifted Hrym to guard position.
"May I take you in my hand, Magnos?" Piero said formally.
"You may, mortal."
Piero took the sword from the golem and gave it an experimental swing. "Not the sort of blade I'm used to, but I need not be at my best to defeat you. I can only imagine the fear you're feeling now, oh, what's your name—Hrym's holder. Hrym will survive this, but you ..." He clucked his tongue, then smiled. "Imagine my joy when I went in search of a magical blade and discovered that Magnos had just arrived in the city, continuing his long pursuit of you, Hrym. It was costly to secure an audience with him, but once he agreed to meet me, we discovered our common cause."
"Flames," Magnos said. "Flames, and death."
"I dedicate this duel to Rostland!" Piero shouted, turning and holding Magnos aloft, brandishing the burning blade above his head. His students cheered.
When the noise died down, Rodrick cleared his throat. "Rostland," he said thoughtfully. "That rings a faint bell. Wasn't that the country that used to be here, before it was subjugated and crushed under the heel of a conqueror and made part of Brevoy, which it remains? It seems odd to dedicate your battle to a country that no longer even exists." Rodrick slapped himself on the forehead. "Oh, but of course! You're planning to lose. It makes perfect sense to dedicate a losing battle to Rostland."
"You attempt to make me angry, and careless," Piero said. "I do not respond to such amateurish trickery." He whirled the blade in a flaming arc. "Shall we, Magnos?"
"Yesssss," Magnos said, his flames leaping up, almost as high as the courtyard walls.
That was when Piero's goatee caught fire. He did keep his beard oiled, Rodrick thought—that was poor planning. It was followed by his hair, his sleeves, and, rapidly, all his clothing. Magnos's flames crawled up the swordlord's arms and across his chest, rippling, and Piero screamed and threw the blade aw
ay, where it clattered on the stones. The golem plodded over, picked up the burning blade, and sheathed it, then trudged out of the courtyard, all while Piero thrashed on the cobblestones, his students gaping at him open-mouthed.
"He appears to be on fire," Rodrick said. "Did you want to do something about that, my liege?"
"Oh, all right," Hrym said. "I'll give him the merest touch of my power." Rodrick gestured with the icy blade, and the air around it cooled sharply, snowflakes precipitating out of the air in white profusion and then showering down on Piero, melting from his heat but dousing the flames. After a few moments, the swordlord was soaking wet, slightly burned, and gasping on the stones.
Rodrick strolled toward the swordlord—keeping a safe distance in case Piero tried something tricky, though the man seemed too stunned to be so resourceful—and put the tip of Hrym's blade in the hollow of Piero's throat, just as the swordlord had done to him at their last meeting. "Do you yield?"
"I—I—"
"Death is also an option," Rodrick reminded him.
"I yield," Piero whispered.
Zaqen hurried toward Piero's second, snapping her fingers, and took the porcelain pitcher from his hands, then scurried away. Wise. It was always possible Piero would scream for his students to "kill them, kill them all!" and it was important to get the prize safely away first. Granted, the students might not rally to their teacher's call—Piero was soaking wet and humiliated, which probably had a negative impact on his ability to inspire them to action—but it was a risk.
"Magnos never could control his power," Hrym said. Piero moaned. "I would have warned you, if I'd known you intended to try to use him against me. Magnos has to be carried by a golem because he's burned every human who ever held him. You're lucky you didn't lose your hands, swordlord. Take me home, wielder."
"As you command, my blade." Rodrick managed to keep every trace of irony out of his voice. They walked out without being attacked, which was nice, but Rodrick was a bit disappointed that none of Piero's students bothered to applaud their exit.
∗ ∗ ∗
"There." Zaqen handed the young wizard a small sack of clinking coins. "That should settle our business, with enough extra to cover the golem rental. You might want to leave town for a while. Piero might decide to take revenge on the people who pointed him to Magnos, and it's possible those whispers could lead back to you."