“Unthank-silver,” said the messenger, seeing that Vigtyr had not unsheathed it, and struggling to keep his eyes open in the caustic atmosphere. “The blade, however, is merely …” The messenger stopped and took a shallow breath. “Merely a token of a fifty-hide estate granted you in the north. You have the Black Lord’s very great gratitude.”
Vigtyr examined the sword for a while. “Thank you for delivering this, Legionary,” he said, looking up after a moment. “Anything else?”
“No more than that, Lictor, and to express the Black Lord’s gratitude once more. He was quite specific on that.”
Vigtyr was looking back down at the sword and smiled at it. “How pleasing,” he said. “May I offer you wine, Legionary?”
The messenger’s eyes flickered towards the hearth once more. “I’m afraid I must decline, Lictor. I have other messages that I must see to.”
“What messages?”
The messenger tried a smile. “Alas I cannot tell you, sir; business of the Black Lord.”
Vigtyr gazed at the messenger for a time. “Come, now,” he said at last, turning away. “You cannot refuse a single cup.” He poured birch wine from a silver pitcher that rested on a stand behind him before turning back to the messenger and holding the cup out before him. The messenger hesitated. Vigtyr was wearing that unshakeable look again and the messenger stretched out his hand, taking the cup.
“Thank you, Lictor.” He took a sip and Vigtyr smiled at him pleasantly.
“You were at Harstathur, I assume?”
The messenger nodded, lifting his eyebrows as he tried the wine. “Yes, Lictor.”
“How was your battle?”
“It was hard on our portion of the line, if I may say, Lictor. The pikeline was exceedingly difficult to penetrate. We lost many men, and opportunities to strike back were few.”
“It is not a glorious place to fight,” said Vigtyr. “I love to fight knights. They’re so slow, they may as well not be armed at all. The only difficulty lies in penetrating their plate.”
“Slow to some of us, Lictor,” offered the messenger, taking another sip of wine.
“Well, indeed,” said Vigtyr. “Pike. Knight. It’s all the same to me, they’re all too slow.”
The messenger made a polite sound.
“You wonder how many nobles you killed during a battle like that one,” continued Vigtyr. “How many of them were thought of as among the best of the realm.”
“I imagine they’d be in the Hermit Crabs if they were the best,” suggested the messenger.
Vigtyr grunted and turned his attention to the sword. After inspecting the handle once more, he unsheathed it suddenly.
“Built with your hands in mind, I believe, Lictor,” said the messenger. It was hot in the room and perspiration had begun to stand out on his brow.
Vigtyr, holding the blade left-handed, gave it a graceful sweep. His eyes lingered on the messenger again and he switched the sword to hold it in his right. For a moment, he levelled the sword at the messenger. The eye contact was so forcible, the sword so threatening that the moment, no more than a heartbeat, was distorted beyond recognition. The messenger took a half-pace back. Then the sword was lowered and Vigtyr gave it another graceful swing. “Well-balanced,” he commented. The instant had been so brief that the messenger might have imagined it.
Vigtyr turned to refill his own goblet, still holding the naked blade, and the messenger took the opportunity to drain the rest of his wine. “So what are these messages you have to deliver?” pressed Vigtyr again, turning back to the messenger. The sword was still low but he was no longer holding his goblet. It sat on the table behind him.
“Outside of the fortress,” said the messenger, unwillingly.
“Ah. A little wilderness for you?”
“Yes, Lictor. I’m heading north.” Vigtyr looked at the messenger expectantly through the long pause that followed. “To the haskoli. I have a message for the Black Lord’s brothers.”
Vigtyr raised his chin, his mouth slightly open. “Ah … Roper’s brothers.” He licked his lips. “Yes. I’d forgotten they were still in the haskoli. Which one is it?”
“Lake Avon.”
“Beautiful. Telling them that they’re safe, now that Uvoren’s threat has been extinguished, I should imagine.”
“Something like that, Lictor.”
Silence prevailed. The perfume was stifling and the messenger had to look away from Vigtyr. Then the huge lictor smiled. “Well, my friend: a long journey lies ahead of you. And I must take up no more of your time.” He laid the sword aside on another of those little tables. Relief broke over the messenger’s face and he set down his goblet.
“Thank you very much for the wine, Lictor. I must indeed depart.” The messenger bowed and straightened rather suddenly, eyes on Vigtyr, who stood perfectly still. The messenger backed away slowly, smiling weakly, and then turned and trotted for the door. Vigtyr watched him go, not moving. He turned away then, moving for the fire which he fed with another log before straightening and staring into the flames, hands clasped behind his back. He frowned a little. Then he gave a low, tuneless whistle. After a pause, a short, squat legionary with the substantial hands of a workman entered from a door by the hearth. He glanced at Vigtyr, who was still staring into the flames.
“Sir?”
“I have work for you at Lake Avon, in
