“Yes,” Croy said, as if very glad that Malden finally understood.
“What in the Bloodgod’s name are you?” Malden asked finally.
“In the name of the Lady, I am an Ancient Blade,” Croy answered.
As if that explained everything.
Well… it did answer a few questions. Malden knew the story of the Ancient Blades, seven legendary warriors so called because they wielded sacred swords. Those swords had been made by human hands in a time so long ago the Free City of Ness wasn’t even a tower on a hill. The method of their creation was lost in time, but it was said even the dwarves could not create weapons of such power or with such keen edges.
Kemper looked down at the bicolored sword in his hands. Then he carefully set it down on the floor.
“That thing’s one of the blades? It doesn’t look like much,” Malden insisted.
“None of them do. They weren’t forged as parade weapons. They were made to do one thing. To fight demons.”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Kemper held the sword as far away from himself as possible.
Malden understood his reticence. Looking at the blade, a strange feeling passed over him. What had been a simple weapon before had taken on new dimensions, now that he understood what it was made for. He remembered the way he’d felt while holding the magicked crown. The voice in his head had the power of command, the ability to rouse men to deeds of foolish valor and great sacrifice. The sword had no such enchantment on it, yet he could almost feel the power contained in its length.
It was old, he knew. Older than he could imagine. It was a fragment of another time, a relic of when the old stories were all true. Malden disbelieved most of what he’d heard of Skrae’s ancient history, of the war against the elves, of the forests full of giants and goblins that preyed on the first human settlers. He had discounted such stories as fit only for children and the feeble-minded. Yet here was a thing that had featured in its own share of those stories, and its reality could not be questioned. It was cold metal, and a kind of magic.
Suddenly all the stories seemed real. All those tales of brave knights wading into sorcerous peril, into the very maws of demons-they might actually be true. The seven blades, who stood alone against all the forces of the pit that would corrupt and defile the very world should they ever be set free.
“Demons are rarely seen now,” Croy explained. “Thanks in no small part to the seven swords and the men who wielded them. We have almost wiped their kind from the face of the world-them, and the dread sorcerers who summon them here for nefarious purposes. There was a time, though, when they were thick upon the land. When they tore great swaths through Skrae, leaving destruction and madness in their wake. In that time the Blades were created, and without them I have no doubt humanity would have perished. They are that important.
“Any piece of iron,” he went on, “is capable of killing a man, or a dwarf, or even an ogre. It just takes a strong arm to wield it. Demons, however, are different. They are native to the pit, where the laws of nature do not apply. Even dwarven steel is little use against them. To make matters worse, this quality that makes them so strong-that they are counter to nature-also makes them horribly dangerous. They were not created to breathe our air, to trod our earth. When they are dragged up out of the pit, they blight the land that receives them. Their evil is like a disease upon the very fabric of reality.”
“Fabric o’ what?” Kemper asked, but Malden hushed him.
“Some will turn milk sour inside a cow’s udders if she so much as looks on them. Some wither crops wherever they pass. And some are capable of destroying our world, just by being here. The one that brought down the Burgrave’s tower-”
“It was tiny,” Malden said, nodding, “until it was exposed to the air. Then it began to grow, and did not stop.”
Croy frowned. “Had it been permitted to continue, it would have grown until it crushed the entire city under its weight. Even then it would not have stopped, until its tentacles could wrap around the world and crush it to rubble.”
Malden felt the blood rush out of his face. He had released the thing from its watery prison. If it had not been checked…
“Fortunately, Bikker and I were there to stop it.”
Malden cried out. “That bastard’s an Ancient Blade, too?” he demanded.
“Yes. He wields the sword called Acidtongue. Just as I wield Ghostcutter.”
“Then you know him,” Malden said.
“Oh, yes. Very well, in fact. He trained me.” Croy rose carefully from the bed, walked over to the window and looked out at the rain, which had grown stronger overnight. “The swords are immortal, but the swordsmen are not. As each Ancient Blade ages and grows infirm, he finds a suitable heir to take the sword and the oath that comes with it. It’s up to the others to teach this new blade how to fight. It is a sacred duty and not lightly conferred-but only twice has a blade failed to be passed on correctly. Two of the swords, Fangbreaker and Dawnbringer, were stolen from us by barbarians. Where they are now, no civilized man knows.”
Croy stared into the middle distance, as if he could find the lost swords in his own memory. Then he shook his head and continued with his tale.
“When I received Ghostcutter from its previous owner, there were five of us, gallant knights all. We were in service to the king, at his fortress at Helstrow. It was our duty to protect him from any demons his enemies summoned to attack him.”
“Why aren’t you there now?” Malden asked.
Croy lowered his head as if he were ashamed of the answer. “The king died. He was poisoned by one of his courtiers. His son, the new king, discharged us. He claimed we were bad bodyguards who had failed to protect our master. We tried to explain that our brief was not to protect against poison, but only demonkind. He didn’t listen. Demons are rarely seen in this world nowadays. Our sacred work is rarely called for-as vital as it may be, it’s difficult to explain to people how important we are when no one has seen a demon at large for nearly fifty years. The new king didn’t understand why he should pay us to train endlessly for a threat that never came. He expected us to do other service to earn our keep. The five of us were forced to split up and go out into the world and find new occupation, wherever we could. Bikker brought me here, where we both swore allegiance to the Burgrave.”
“That doesn’t seem to be working so well,” Malden pointed out.
Croy glared at him.
The thief shrugged off the knight’s disdain. “I speak nothing but fact. Neither of you works for the Burgrave anymore. Bikker’s working for the Burgrave’s enemies now. And the Burgrave sentenced you to death.”
“I haven’t forgotten my oath, all the same. As for Bikker-something changed inside him. With nothing much to do, he grew bored here. There was not enough action to satisfy his bloodlust, and a man like Bikker must fight or he begins to die inside. Everything that was noble and valiant in him perished for lack of use. It was a great tragedy- but I cannot forgive him for what he has become. He broke his promise to the Burgrave and now he sells his services-and Acidtongue’s-to the highest bidder. I called him faithless when he left the Burgrave’s employ. I insulted his honor.” Croy shook his head. “Now he seeks satisfaction for that slight. He will kill me if he catches me.”
“What, because you called him a bad name?” Malden asked.
“Sure, son, an’ only apologize, an’ make it better, like,” Kemper suggested.
“It was unforgivable, what I said. Don’t you understand? Honor is everything to such as Bikker and myself. An insult like that is a mortal blow.” Croy studied Malden and Kemper with a questioning eye. “You don’t understand at all. Is it true what they say, then, that there is no honor among thieves?”
“Aye,” Kemper said.
“Yes,” Malden agreed.
Croy grunted in distaste.
Malden felt the need to explain. “If that’s how you define honor, anyway. When you’re poor you can’t afford to take offense. If I had to kill every man who ever swore an oath in my presence… well, Ness wouldn’t be so crowded anyway. But I suppose it’s different for the nobility. When two men in the Stink come to blows in a tavern, it’s assault, and they’re both put in the stocks. When a baronet and an earl hack away at each other with their swords,
