Croy, refuse to marry him, because she still loved Malden.
But then the barbarian had shown up and thrown everything into disarray. And now he had no idea what to think.
“Cythera,” he said. “You and I should have a talk at some point, about—”
“Malden,” Cythera said, cutting him off before he could finish his thought, “the watch will be here at any moment. They’ll have a lot of questions, and they may try to take this stranger away. In the meantime, we have a moment’s peace. It’s even quiet for—”
They all flinched, then, as the booming, demonic laughter came once more from below. Malden tensed and reached for the bodkin at his belt, but when there was no sound of ringing swords or screams of agony, he dropped into a chair and shook his head.
“—mostly quiet, for now,” Cythera amended. “We’ll all have to leave very shortly, so perhaps we should make use of this groaning board before we have to flee.”
Malden could see the wisdom in that. He nodded, but said, “Later, then. But we will speak, won’t we?”
“As you wish!” Cythera said, seeming more than a little annoyed.
Malden knew better than to push the point. He took an eating knife from the table and speared a slice of ham. He glanced over at Coruth. She was downing a goblet of wine, so fast it was spilling down the front of her tunic. If the witch had read anything into the conversation between the thief and her daughter, she seemed oblivious now.
“He’s a barbarian,” Coruth said, when she had emptied her cup. She reached for the flagon to refill it. “If you’re wondering.”
“You didn’t even see him,” Malden said.
Coruth grabbed a roasted leg of chicken from a plate. “Don’t need to.”
Malden frowned. “You sense his nature, on some subtle current in the ether? Is that it? Have you plumbed his heart with your witchery?”
“Don’t need that, either. Only a barbarian laughs like that. Like his death could come for him at any minute and he’s looking forward to it.” The witch put down the bone she’d been gnawing and sat back in her chair. “They’re different, out there on the eastern steppes. Unsophisticated, some might say. They live in a more violent world, that’s for sure. They have no gods but death, and they fight like animals.” She stared into the middle distance and smiled. “Make love like animals, too.”
“Mother,” Cythera said, spreading butter on a piece of brown bread, “if you know that from personal experience, I’d prefer not to hear the story.”
Heavy footsteps came clomping up the stairs, and the two swordsmen bustled into the room. The barbarian had a fresh bandage around his forearm but the bleeding wound on his chest was left exposed. He had one massive arm around Croy’s shoulders.
“Everyone,” Croy said, “I’d like you to meet Mörget.”
Malden rose from his chair and wiped his hands on his tunic. He glanced toward the window, wondering how fast he could get out of the room if he had to. It wasn’t that he felt he was in any particular danger. Looking to the nearest escape route was simply his natural reaction when being introduced to a very large man covered in weapons.
Croy introduced his new friends to the ladies, and then to Malden, who stuck out one hand to grasp. The barbarian stared at the hand for a moment, then looked away.
“I beg your pardon, sir, if I have offended,” Malden said.
“Little man, forgive me. In my land we touch only those we love, or those we plan on killing.”
“Like … Croy,” Malden said, nodding at the arm that held the knight. “Do the two of you know each other from some previous battle?”
“We never met before today,” Croy assured the thief.
“Then—”
“Mörget is an Ancient Blade.”
“Oh!” Cythera said, and Malden nodded, because that explained everything.
Croy bore the sword Ghostcutter, and it defined his life. Before it had been given to him his father had carried it, and before his father there had been a whole succession of knights who had wielded the sword. Each of them had groomed his own replacement, so that the sword would always have a noble bearer. Croy had spent his entire youth training just to be worthy to hold it. To listen to him talk of his sword, the knight was far less important and less valuable than the piece of iron he wore at his belt, so when people asked him what kind of man he was, he claimed he was an Ancient Blade—speaking for the sword, which had no voice of its own.
The wielders of those swords were sworn to various oaths, one of which was that they would aid each other in noble quests. Another was that if they ever broke their vows the other six were bound to hunt them down and slay them, so that the blade they had dishonored could be recovered and passed on to a more worthy owner.
Which meant that Croy and Mörget would either be fast friends from now on, or Croy would have to kill Mörget without warning.
“I believe I told you once that only five of the swords were accounted for here in the west. Two others were lost to us, among the—the barbarians.”
Mörget pursed his lips and tsked. “The clans of the east,” he corrected.
“Yes, of course,” Croy said, “the clans of the east. Well, it turns out they weren’t lost at all. The clans have had them for centuries, and they’ve been honoring the blades just as we have, and keeping them for their holy purpose.”
“We have sorcerers beyond the mountains,” Mörget added, “just as you have them here. Someone must fight them. I, myself, have slain more than one dozen with Dawnbringer.” He drew the sword from its sheath and jabbed it toward the ceiling. “May I live to slay a dozen more, or die with blade in hand!”
“Yes, may you do that,” Malden said. He went to the table and picked up a pitcher of ale. “Should we drink to it?”
“I never drink spirits,” Mörget insisted, putting his sword away. “They dull the senses, ruin the body, and make a man unfit for battle. Do you have any milk?”
“There’s cream here,” Cythera suggested, and pointed out a ewer.
The barbarian picked it up like a cup and quaffed a long draught. Then he grimaced and shook his head. Cream was smeared all around his mouth, obscuring the red paint there.
It did not, in Malden’s eyes, make the man look comical. He could have been wearing a wig of straw and a fake pig snout over his nose, and still Malden would not have thought the man looked like a clown. Not when he knew how much iron Mörget was carrying under his fur cloak.
It was not that Malden was a coward, after all—he was not opposed to personal risk if there was any benefit to be had from it. It was merely that he understood that courage in the face of certain doom was folly. He would no sooner laugh at this barbarian than he would put his head inside a lion’s mouth to prove his manhood.
While he was brooding on this subject, Malden heard the door of the tavern open with a crash. He glanced at
