He hurried down the wall and ran over to where Slag stood, still holding his snake-headed staff.
“Come to congratulate me?” the dwarf asked.
Balint was inspecting the broken wall, picking up chunks of masonry and debris and then casting them away again. Malden grabbed her arm and pulled her over to where Slag stood. “You two are the finest engineers this world has ever known, surely. And you deserve a grand reward already. But I must ask you to continue your labors. Get your weapon ready to be used once more. Once the barbarians have a chance to find their scattered wits, we’ll need to strike them again. And again.”
The two dwarves looked up at him with open mouths and wide eyes.
“I know I ask much of you, but-”
Malden stopped. He knew what they were going to say. So badly did he not want to hear it that he held up a hand to keep them from speaking.
He looked up at the weapon, the giant brass tube that Slag had made. It had rolled back into a house across the street, shattering the facade and half burying itself in fallen timbers and bricks.
It had also shattered itself. Long cracks ran up and down its length, and its mouth was splayed wide, the bright metal curled backward on itself like a flower of brass. Smoke dribbled from that opening still.
It was clear to anyone, even one of so little learning as Malden, that it would never work again. It had done what it could, but in the process it had destroyed itself.
“That… was it,” Malden said. “Wasn’t it? There was only one volley in it.”
“I did warn you, lad,” Slag said in a very small voice.
Malden closed his eyes. Was this the end? “Then we must all hope,” he said, “that Tarness is as great a general as he thinks he is.”
Chapter One Hundred Eighteen
Morget shouted in pain and for a moment froze in place, unable to continue his attack. It gave Hew time to scuttle away on his back like a crab, and that gave Croy room to dance around and face Morget directly. He knew better than to think his blow had killed the barbarian, though he was certain he’d pierced vital organs.
It had not been a particularly virtuous attack. He’d struck out blindly to save Hew-but even Morget deserved a better death than a sneak attack to his unprotected side. Croy stepped back, flicking blood away from Ghostcutter’s blade, while the giant barbarian bent around his wound and watched his blood drip on the ground.
There was a way these things should be done. When two great swordsmen met in single combat, it was called a conversation, because the swords ringing against each other could sound like they were arguing in something approaching human speech. But also because any such fight should properly begin with words.
Each side must state his case-explain, in detail, why he had the right to win the contest. Why fate should favor him. It was an old ritual, but it served one perfectly functional purpose as well. The banter before the exchange of blows could drive one man or the other to anger or fear or resignation to death. Many conversations ended before swords even met or blood was drawn. Croy was a master of every aspect of the swordsman’s art and he knew how to taunt and accuse just as well as he knew how to parry and feint and lunge.
“ ‘My sword is my soul,’ ” Croy said. The creed of the Ancient Blades. “You don’t have a soul, do you, Mountainslayer?” he asked. “You defile Dawnbringer by touching it.”
“A soul?” Morget asked. He looked as if he would be happy to discuss fine points of philosophy rather than continue the fight. As if his wound didn’t pain him at all. Perhaps Morget had learned something about dismissing pain while he had been a berserker. “Perhaps I do not. But I am possessed by a wyrd.”
Croy had no idea what that meant. He did know he was fighting one-armed against a giant of a man who could fight with two weapons at once. “Have you any honor?” he asked. “Face me, blade-to-blade. Like a knight. Prove to me you have the right to carry Dawnbringer. Or die, and let me take it from you. That’s one of the vows we take as Ancient Blades. If we fail to live up to the sword’s worth, it will be taken from us. Given to someone more virtuous.”
“Come and get it, then. For I have no virtue at all,” Morget said. “I’m too honest for such lies as honor and valor. All I know is strength and glory.”
Croy tried to laugh. All that came out of his mouth was a dry rasping rattle. “To the end you are a barbarian. Uncultured, and unknowing of the ways of true honor. You never deserved to hold Dawnbringer. Look, even now you hold it the same way you hold your axe. Like a laborer holding a tool. A true warrior fights with sword alone.”
Morget smiled, showing enormous teeth like the pegs on the neck of a lute. He bowed, slightly. Then he made a great show of dropping his axe.
Croy spared a quick look around him. Reavers surrounded him on all sides, but they were holding back-either because they knew Morget would want to fight Croy alone, or because the Skilfinger knights were constantly harrying them to keep them away from the regent of Skrae.
Fate had conspired to bring the two of them together like this. At long last. From the moment Croy had realized Morget still lived-when he struck down Sir Orne and broke Bloodquaffer, while Croy carried the sleeping king away from Helstrow-he had known this moment would come.
Justice, honor, and the Lady were all on his side.
Against them Morget had an enormous reserve of strength and a shocking brutality of nature. This wasn’t going to be easy.
“I called you brother, once,” Croy said, taking a step sideways, toward Morget’s less defensible left. “That was a mistake.”
“I took your hand in friendship, once,” Morget replied, not bothering to follow Croy’s footwork. “It was the smartest thing I ever did. Look where it got me!”
“It’s about to get you killed,” Croy said.
Morget looked as if he was framing a reply.
Croy didn’t wait to hear it. He leapt inward, striking low at Morget’s thigh. Ghostcutter rang like a bell when Dawnbringer came down to block its cut. Light flashed up from Morget’s blade.
“Fie!” Croy cursed, blinking furiously. The light had dazzled him momentarily-but even in that split second Morget had plenty of time to counterattack.
Yet the barbarian did not take the advantage. “You could be the enemy I’ve sought,” Morget said. “The man my wyrd has been chasing all this time. Yet I see you’ve been wounded, and have not yet had time to heal. Should we postpone this fight for another day?”
Croy spun around, Ghostcutter whistling over his head. Dawnbringer came up and batted it away with little effort. At least this time Croy kept enough of his wits about him not to look into the blade as it flared with light.
He tried to follow through with a slash down the center of Morget’s chest, but Dawnbringer moved so quickly he couldn’t follow it and parried the strike. Croy took a half step backward, then spun Ghostcutter around and around in a series of quick, shallow cuts that would never kill Morget but might make him bleed.
Dawnbringer rang and flared, rang and flared, rang and flared once more. Not once did Ghostcutter break through that flurry of iron.
Staggering backward, Croy sucked wildly for breath. He didn’t have the stamina for this. It was possible-just possible-that a man with boundless energy could wear Morget down, given enough time. Croy’s limbs, though, were already gripped by fatigue and his armor had never felt heavier.
“You’ve made your choice, then,” Morget said. “I’ll give you time to pray, if you like. Before I cut you in half. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps yours is not the strength my father spoke of either. Perhaps-”
With everything he had left, Croy brought Ghostcutter around in one unstoppable cut, the kind of furious strike that could carve a man like a goose. It was the most deadly attack he knew how to make, and desperation pushed it harder than any blow he’d ever swung before.
Dawnbringer came down hard and the two blades met with a sickening crunch.
Burning light erupted all along the length of Dawnbringer’s forte. Ghostcutter grew hot in Croy’s hands as the cold iron of its blade took the energy of the blow and lost its near-magical temper. Silver flaked away from the sword’s trailing edge.
