was nothing of magic in steel-but it was stronger, more flexible, and held an edge better than even the most arcane iron.
He stared down into the dark flat of Ghostcutter, into the shining mirror of the silver that coated its trailing edge. It was a weapon ill-suited to making war against men with steel armor and modern weapons, perhaps. Yet it was still his soul. That was the credo of the Ancient Blades: my sword is my soul. It is not my possession. I am its servant. I will perish, but the blade will survive.
Had Morget broken Ghostcutter, instead of Bloodquaffer-well, perhaps it was a mercy that Orne had not survived his blade for more than a moment.
From the battlements of the holdfast on which he sat, Croy could just see Helstrow on the horizon. He could see the tent camps outside the western gate and a hint of movement there. The barbarians had grown bored with the fortress they’d stolen, and were preparing to move on some other hapless target.
Croy brought the whetstone back down to Ghostcutter’s hilt. Started its journey back toward the point.
The iron edge was as sharp as he could make it.
The other edge of the sword was coated with silver, good for cutting through curses and sorcerous magic. When the molten silver had been applied to the sword it was kept just above its melting point, and as a result had run across the blade like molten candle wax, leaving long runners of bright metal in the fuller and across the flat. The silver didn’t require sharpening-that which it cut was not material. Croy inspected the soft silver carefully, though, looking for nicks and dents that might show black iron underneath. These he smoothed over with endless pressure from his own thumb.
On the horizon, a barbarian on a horse went galloping southward, hurrying for the road to Redweir. It made sense that the learned city there would be the next to come under attack. All power in Skrae rested on a stool with three legs: Helstrow, Redweir, and Ness, the three largest cities and the kingdom’s most defensible walls. Anyone who wished to conquer the kingdom must first break that stability. Cut two of those legs out from under the kingdom and it would topple. Redweir was the obvious choice for the barbarians’ next target for another reason as well. If Morg and his children held Helstrow and Redweir both, they would control the river Strow-and gain the land they had asked for in tribute, and been denied.
Croy prayed that city would be ready for the battle.
He knew it would not.
Still rubbing at the silver with his thumb, he climbed off the merlon he’d been using as a seat and went down the stairs into the open space of the holdfast.
The structure was not built to be comfortable. It was drafty and damp, and there was nothing inside but a floor of packed earth and a few barrels of salted pork. In times long past, the stone structure had stood in the middle of a farming village. The village had moved on, following more fertile soil, but the holdfast remained, its entrance choked with weeds, its walls green and black with perfectly circular patches of lichen. It still served its original purpose, however. It was a place where the local villeins could shelter in case of an attack by bandits or reavers.
It would not have held for an hour against the full force of the barbarian horde. But it was the best Croy had been able to find under the circumstances.
King Ulfram V lay on a pallet of straw, next to a smoky fire. He had not woken, or moved, since Croy brought him there. Yet he breathed still, and when Croy touched the monarch’s neck, he felt a dull pulse.
He found a pot and put it over the fire. He made a thin soup, mostly broth with a few carrots and green potatoes chopped in. He put a spoon in the pot, let it cool in the chill air of the holdfast, and then carefully placed it against the king’s lips.
Very little of the liquid went into Ulfram’s mouth, but the king swallowed reflexively when the warm broth hit the back of his throat. Croy waited a moment, then dipped the spoon in the pot again.
When he decided the king had swallowed enough of the soup, he pulled a blanket up around the man’s shoulders. He fluffed the wadded-up tunic the king had for a pillow. It was all he could do.
Then he went back to smoothing the silver edge of his sword.
Eventually, he dozed. He would not have called it sleep. More like a devotional trance, the same hypnotic reverie Croy fell into during his night-long vigils. He was never totally unaware of his surroundings. His hand’s grip never truly relaxed on the hilt of Ghostcutter.
So when someone pounded on the door of the holdfast, he scuttled up to his feet in an instant, sword in hand.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Through the stout oak door, Croy could hear the voices of men outside the holdfast. He could not tell how many of them there were, nor whose men they might be-they could be barbarians, or bandits, or any manner of evil pursuers.
“I can hear a fire crackling in there,” one man said, quite close to the door.
“Aye-and I heard clanking armor,” another said, fainter.
“So what if there’s someone inside?” the first voice argued. “I’m cold, and tired, and hungry. We’ll make short work of ’em and have the place to-”
Croy wrenched the door open and saw a terrified face staring back at him. He grabbed the man by the throat, then pulled him inside and slammed the door behind him before the others could force their way in. He dropped the bar across the door, sealing it again, then whirled around with Ghostcutter’s point to face the man he’d drawn in.
The intruder fell backward, to clatter on the floor, his kettle hat sliding down over his eyes. He reached up to move the helmet but Croy batted his hand away with the flat of Ghostcutter.
“Who are you?” Croy demanded.
The man seemed too frightened to answer. He was dressed in canvas jack, with iron plates sewn to his elbows and shoulders. He wore a hanger at his belt-more dagger than sword, but deadly enough. The man made no attempt to reach for his weapon.
Croy placed the point of Ghostcutter against his throat. “You wear the harness of a soldier of the king,” he said. “If you’re true to your coat, you’ll find no enemy here.”
“G-G-Gavin,” the man choked out.
“That’s your name, Gavin? Where did you serve?”
“At Helstrow, milord,” Gavin said. He reached up slowly to adjust the brim of his helmet. Croy allowed it. “You’re Sir Croy!”
Croy didn’t deny it.
“Milord, I beg you-have mercy. I only sought shelter here!”
“And you would have taken it from me, by force of arms,” Croy said, nodding.
Gavin’s eyes were wide with fright. “How long have you been in here? Since the battle? You don’t know what it’s like out there! The barbarians harry the countryside. They kill any man they find, take any woman. They burn villages and ravage good crop land. Any place with a roof over your head, any place safe, is worth fighting for.”
“And the king was good enough to give you arms to fight with,” Croy said. He tapped the knife at Gavin’s belt, then the helmet on the soldier’s head. “How many others are with you?”
“Seven. All that’s left of my company. Please, milord-just let me go in peace.”
Croy stepped away from the man on the floor. He unbarred the door and cracked it open. Beyond he could see men peering back at him. They looked more frightened than Gavin. “You’ll come inside one at a time, and drop all your weapons as you enter. At the slightest sign of treachery I’ll cut Gavin to pieces. Understood?”
The men outside nodded eagerly.
Croy allowed them to file inside. They were filthy after days of crawling through mud, and their pale faces had the haunted eyes of men who’d seen too much bloodshed. They obeyed his instructions, dropping even their belt knives. One had a shield. He made to hold onto it, but Croy smacked it with Ghostcutter so it rang. All of the men jumped at the sound.
“A shield’s as good as a mace, in the right hands,” he said. “Drop it.”
