T
he marketers all fled or pressed into the doors of shops where they could watch from something like safety. Malden was alone with his enemy in a wide-open street, alone and very short on options.
The knight clanked as he walked. He wore a full coat of plate that covered him from head to toe. Even his joints were protected by chain mail. The visor of his helmet was down and Malden could see nothing of his face.
Such armor, he knew, had an effect on the mind of the man who wore it. It made him believe himself invulnerable. Which was true, for all practical purposes—no iron sword could slash through that steel. Spear blades and bill hooks would simply clash off the armor, at worst denting its shiny plates. Protected thus, men tended to think that their safety meant they were blessed by the gods, and that whatever they chose to do was also blessed.
Such armor was a license for cruelty and rapine.
Yet there were weapons that could pierce that protective shell. The bodkin Malden had once carried was designed to pierce even steel, if driven with enough force and good aim. Battle-axes were designed to smash through armor by sheer momentum. An arrow from a longbow, as Malden had seen, could cut through it like paper.
And then there was Acidtongue, the sword at his belt. If he could strike one solid blow with it, the sword could cut the knight in half.
Yet that might be the stupidest thing he ever did. Atop the plate, the knight wore a long white tabard that hung down to his knees. Painted on the cloth was a golden crown. This wasn’t a knight errant like Croy, but a knight in full estate, a champion of the king of Skrae. Most likely he was the captain of the watch, superior in rank to all the Scars and Halberts in Helstrow.
If Malden got lucky and cut the man down, he would be pursued unto the ends of the world. You did not kill a nobleman and get away with it, not ever.
He could, of course, run away. The knight seemed agile enough, even weighed down with so much steel, but Malden knew he would undoubtedly be fleeter and the chase would not go far. He turned around, intending to do this very thing, only to find he had hesitated a moment too long.
Coming down the street from the other direction, a pack of kingsmen were advancing on him steadily. Their weapons were all pointed straight at his belly. They held their ground, not advancing with any kind of speed—clearly they intended to let the knight handle him. Yet there was no chance of getting past that wall of blades. His only possible escape was to get past the knight.
Malden wasn’t the type to pray, even in extremity, but he called on Sadu then. Sadu the Bloodgod, the leveler, who brought justice to all men in the end, even knights and nobility. Then he drew his magic sword, and wished he’d bothered to learn how to swing it correctly. Or at least to hold it properly. Acid dripped from the eroded blade and spat where it struck the dusty cobbles.
The knight swore, his voice echoing inside his helmet. “By the Lady! Where’d you get that treasure, son? Did you steal it from Sir Bikker?”
Malden’s eyes narrowed. How could the knight know who had first owned Acidtongue? “Bikker is dead,” he said.
“But yours wasn’t the hand that slew him, I warrant. You’re no Ancient Blade.”
For the first time, Malden looked on the knight’s own sword. No jewels decorated the pommel, and the quillions were of plain iron, though well polished. The blade was not even particularly long. Yet vapor lifted from its flat to spin in the air, and patterns of frost crackled in its fuller.
“Do you recognize my sword?” the knight asked.
“Judging by the fact I’m still in one piece, I think it’s fair to say I haven’t made its acquaintance.”
The knight laughed. “This is Chillbrand,” he said. “You’d know that, if Acidtongue was rightfully yours. No Ancient Blade is handed down to a new wielder until he’s been trained by the man who wielded it before him. He’s taught its proper use, and about the history and powers of all seven. None of us would ever let one of the swords fall into the hands of one who didn’t appreciate their traditions.”
“I’m still being trained,” Malden said, which was true enough.
The knight shook his head, though. “If you don’t know Chillbrand, you have no right to bear Acidtongue. I must assume you stole it from Bikker—or looted it from his dead body. Put the sword back in its sheath now and lay it gently on the ground. That’s a good boy.”
Malden’s lips pulled back from his teeth and he roared as he ran at the knight. He brought Acidtongue up high over his shoulder—vitriol pattered and burned holes through his cloak—and then swung it down hard.
The knight laughed, and easily batted Acidtongue away with Chillbrand.
“It’s not a quarterstaff, son,” the knight said, taking two steps to Malden’s right, forcing Malden to whirl around to face him again. “Don’t swing it around like a stick. That’s a waste of its strength. Cut with it. Like you’d chop the head off a fish.”
“You’d teach me to fight even as I’m trying to kill you?” Malden asked.
“Judging by your skill, it’ll take you quite a while to do that,” the knight responded. “I have to find some way to pass the time.”
Malden seethed with rage. He tried a stroke he’d seen Croy make a dozen times—
feint quickly to the left, then shift all your weight to your right side and on the follow-through bring the blade around to—
Iron clanged on iron. Chillbrand slid down Acidtongue’s blade and its point was suddenly at Malden’s throat, while Acidtongue was thrust harmlessly to one side.
“A swordsman,” the knight told Malden, “trains every day of his life. He sustains himself on wholesome food, to build up his strength. You’re puny, boy. You’ve gone to bed hungry one too many times. You’re quick on your feet, I’ll give you that, but the muscles in your arm are soft as cheese. I can feel it.”
“Will you insult me to death? Stop toying with me!”
“When two knights meet, swords in hand, they call it a conversation, because of the way the steel sounds its joy, back and forth. But you’d know that, too, if—”
Without warning Malden brought Acidtongue around with his weight behind it, intending to run it straight through the knight’s body. Acidtongue flickered in the air, it moved so quickly. Yet the knight was as ready for the blow as if he’d read Malden’s mind. Chillbrand came down from overhead and turned Acidtongue to the side like earth off the blade of a plow.
“Cut me down or let me pass!” Malden shrieked.
“If you insist,” the knight said.
Yet he would not even grant Malden the mercy of a quick death. Instead he just lunged forward and slapped Malden across the forehead with the flat of his blade.
Ice crystals grew and burst inside Malden’s brain, exploding his thoughts and freezing his senses. He felt every shred of warmth sucked from his body, drawn into the freezing sword. He started to shake and his teeth clacked together like the wooden clappers of the lepers he’d seen. His body convulsed with the cold and suddenly he could not control his fingers, and Acidtongue fell from his hand to bounce off the cobblestones.
Desperately, Malden tried to wrap his arms around himself, to stamp his feet—anything to get warm. His body had rebelled against him and he could not stop shaking.
It was the work of a moment for the kingsmen behind him to grab him up, bind him, and haul him away. He could offer no resistance at all.
W
hen Malden had burst out of the inn, Cythera leapt to her feet, fully intending to follow him. People pressed in on every side, though, and she just could not match the thief’s speed or nimbleness. Still, she tried to push her way through the crowd—until Croy grabbed her arm and dragged her back.
“If they have a warrant for his arrest,” he said, “we must—”
“He’s our friend,” Cythera said, staring daggers at the knight errant. “I’m going after him!”
“If you must, then at least let’s do it the right way. We’ll speak to the proper authorities, and find out why they want him and how he can be freed. Just let me settle up our bill here, and—”
She stared at him with wild eyes. “I’ll go alone. You keep an eye on Balint.” She twisted her arm out of his grip and ducked under the elbow of the taverner, who had come to see what all the fuss was about. The people in the inn drew back when they saw the look in her face.
She would not lose Malden. Not when she’d just realized how she felt about him. That fate should take him away from her now was unacceptable.
Outside of the inn she sought wildly through the crowded streets, having no idea where she should look for him first. She knew he would likely have taken to the rooftops, but she wasn’t as nimble and couldn’t follow him that way. When she heard the hue and cry go up, though, she knew to head in the direction of the shouting—and raced around a corner just in time to see Malden struck down. She called out his name in horror but couldn’t move from the spot, paralyzed in terror. She thought for certain he was dead, his head caved in by the blow, but instead he merely collapsed to the street, quaking like a man in the grip of a terrible seizure.
She wanted to run forward, to grab him up and take him away, to rescue him. But the square was full of kingsmen, and the armored knight stood watchful and ready. There was no way she could help Malden now, not directly. There must be something she could do, though, something to—
“Daughter. You have been gone too long.”
Cythera’s jaw dropped. “Mother?”
Creeping dread made every muscle in her back ripple and tense. Slowly she turned around, expecting to see Coruth the witch standing in the alley behind her.
Instead there was a boy there, a little peasant boy with a dirty face. And several hundred birds.
Rooks, starlings, pigeons, and doves stood on the cobbles or perched on the timbers of the houses on either side. More of them came down to land around the boy as Cythera watched. Some fluttered down to land on his shoulders, others to perch atop his head. The birds were all staring at her.
The boy, in way of contrast, looked at nothing. His eyes were unfocused and it appeared they might roll up into their sockets. His arms hung loose at his sides, and the muscles of his face were all slack, so that he slurred his words as he spoke to her again.
“You are required in Ness. You must come home immediately.”
Cythera knew what was happening. That didn’t make it any less unsettling. Her mother had set her spirit loose upon the ether, let it drift with the movements of birds, as was her wont. It allowed her to see things hidden from human eyes and to keep a watch on the entire kingdom of Skrae at once. Yet birds could not convey proper messages—their beaks and tongues were ill-formed for human speech. So Coruth must have overridden the boy’s consciousness with her own. It was a cruel thing to do, and Cythera knew Coruth would only have turned to such magic if she had no other choice.
“Malden’s in trouble, Mother. You and I both owe him a great debt—I can’t go anywhere until he’s safe. I just watched him get struck by an Ancient Blade.”
“Chillbrand,” the boy said. He did not nod. Coruth was controlling only enough of his functions to speak with. That was the difference between witchcraft and sorcery, sometimes. A sorcerer would have taken the boy over completely—and left him mindless and half dead when the sorcerer was done with him. “One of the seven. Strange. I can see them all now, all seven of the swords. They are coming together, as if drawn by a magnet.”
“The swords are coming to Helstrow?” Cythera asked, intrigued despite herself.
“For a brief while. Hmm. This could be trouble. The future is not entirely clear right now. What is clear is that you must return to Ness. We must speak, you and I. Great events are unfolding. Some we care about will be brought low, while others are lifted to the heights. What was solid and eternal will become mutable. Malden . . . did you say Malden was in trouble? But that’s impossible. He has—he will—”
The boy’s lips pressed tightly together and one of his hands twitched. Coruth was losing control of him.
“Mother? Mother, what are you talking about?” Cythera demanded. Coruth could see the underpinnings of reality, she could even glimpse the future, but often what she saw was so cryptic that even she could make no sense of it. Cythera understood maybe one part in ten of what Coruth told her of those visions. “Mother, please. I need to know more—if this will effect Malden, or Croy, I need to know!”
But Coruth had released the boy. His eyes slowly focused and his face regained something like normal muscle tone. Cythera knelt down to put her hands on his shoulders and help him return to full control of his body by stroking his forehead and rubbing his back. “Mistress,” he said, and blinked his eyes rapidly. “Mistress, I beg your pardon—I musta come runnin’ down here and bumped you, and scattered me wits for a moment. I—I— Where am I? I was s’posed to do somethin’, but I can’t rightly recall what. I can’t remember much, tell the truth. My head aches somethin’ awful.”
“You were supposed to give me a message. You did just fine.” Cythera took a farthing from her purse and pressed it into his hand. “You do look like you’ve had a shock. Best run home now and lie down.”
The boy took the coin and headed off, scattering the birds that bobbed and scampered around the alley. Cythera hoped he would do as she’d said—the spell he’d been under would leave him drained and scattered for days, and she would hate to find out he’d come to some mischief just for helping Coruth.
Slowly she rose to her feet again. She would return to the inn and find Croy. The knight errant was Malden’s only hope now. Before she headed back, though, she waited until one of the birds turned away from her. Then she darted forward and grabbed it with both hands. It was a pigeon with iridescent wings, and it was not as frightened as it should have been. That meant some piece of Coruth’s mind was still inside its head. “Mother,” she whispered to the bird, “you could have been more helpful. I got your message but all you’ve achieved is to scare me a bit. If you have any idea what I’m supposed to do now, I’d love to hear it.”
The bird struggled in her hands, and she released it. Without even looking at her it took to the air and flew away.