The man was fast, and exceeding strong, Croy saw. He would make short work of his six assailants if he wasn’t stopped. Rushing forward with his hands held high, Croy called, “Fellows, good men all, stop this now, let us converse, and see if—”
His words were lost in the noise as the barbarian’s mace—held in his presumably weaker left hand—caught a third bravo in the stomach and sent him sprawling across the room. The injured man screamed with a horrible wet sound that suggested half his innards had just been ruptured.
The remaining three all rushed the barbarian at once, their knives flashing high. The one with the buckler took a mace blow perfectly, catching it on the small shield and knocking it backward toward the barbarian’s face. The barbarian took a step backward, surprised at this resistance—the first real challenge he’d met—and another bravo took the opportunity to lunge forward with his knife and prick the barbarian’s chest. The barbarian howled and brought his axe around to slice off his foeman’s cheek. The axe was red with blood when it came back around, whirling in its master’s hand. Continuing his swing, the barbarian brought it behind his back and embedded it deep in the buckler, splitting the wooden shield and the wrist that held it. Two more bodies struck the floor.
Croy felt no fear at watching this spectacle of gore. He had trained himself, over the course of many years, to ride the wave of giddiness that threatened to freeze him to the spot. He took another step forward and raised his hands again for attention. “Stop this. Now,” he said.
“Just a moment,” the barbarian said. Then he swung around on one foot, his mace whistling through the air. The final bravo had edged around behind him and was about to stab him in the back. Instead the mace shattered the bones of his forearm and he dropped the weapon. For a moment he stared at his hand dangling at the end of a crushed arm, and then he began to scream.
There was no other sound in the room. The air seemed to hang perfectly still, as if it had turned to glass and held every object secure in its place. Croy felt rooted to the spot, unable to move an inch.
It was no magic spell that made Croy feel that way, but the simple focus of battle joined. It was clear this barbarian would not surrender without a fight. Based on what little Croy knew of his people, that was no surprise. The barbarians of the eastern steppes were born warriors all—they spent their entire lives hunting and fighting, and they were renowned for their pure bloody courage. Only a thin range of mountains separated their land from the kingdom of Skrae, but that fluke of geography was a true blessing. If the barbarians ever came to Skrae in pursuit of conquest, even Croy doubted the kingdom could stand for long against them.
Now he was face to face with a perfect specimen of that warrior culture, and he didn’t know if he could prevail.
“I believe you wished to say something,” the barbarian said. His lips drew back in what might have been a friendly grin—if the posture of his body and the set of his muscles didn’t suggest he was about to spring forward in a deadly attack.
Croy scowled and drew his sword. He had trained for fighting, himself. He had made a study of taking down opponents like this. He considered his strategy in the moments he had left before the attack came. He could parry the axe, he knew, if he used a cross slash cut, but that mace was too heavy and the arm that wielded it too strong to be effectively blocked. He would need to duck under its swing, and lunge forward at the same time, bringing his sword down in a weak slash that might—
“Ghostcutter,” the barbarian said, as if he were greeting an old friend. He nodded at the sword in Croy’s hand. Then he flung his arms out to the sides and dropped both axe and mace.
Croy frowned. “You know my blade?” he asked. The sword he wielded—the only weapon he’d brought to the signing of the banns, and that only for ornament—was famous in certain circles, of course. It was an Ancient Blade, one of seven swords forged at the dawn of time to fight no lesser opponents than demons themselves. Ghostcutter was made of cold-forged iron, with one edge coated in silver. Runnels of melted silver streamed across its fuller. It was made to fight against magical creatures, curses, and the abominations of foul sorcery. It was damned good at cutting more mundane flesh, as well.
“I should recognize it anywhere,” the barbarian said. He drew his own sword and launched himself forward, straight at Croy, in a fast cutting attack that would have overwhelmed a less disciplined warrior’s defense.
The two swords clanged together with a sound like the ringing of a bell. When two well-made swords met like that it was called a conversation, for the repeated ringing noise as they came together and checked each other’s strikes. Croy knew this conversation would be very short—if he didn’t cut the barbarian down in the next few seconds, the other man’s strength would end the fight before it had a chance to properly begin. The first clash nearly brought him down. He struggled to hold his parry against the strength behind the blow, his eyes fixed on the point where the barbarian’s foible met his forte. The weakest part of the barbarian’s blade, up against the most resistance Croy could offer, and he barely held his ground. Iron slid against iron with a horrible grinding that would blunt both edges.
Then the barbarian’s blade burst into light.
It was no reflection of a candle flame, but the pure clean light of the sun, and it came from within the metal of the blade itself. Croy was blinded and he shouted an oath as he jumped backwards, falling on his haunches away from the light. He flung up Ghostcutter before him in hopeless defense. If he could not see the barbarian’s next attack, he could not properly meet it. The man could kill him a hundred different ways without resistance.
Yet when Croy managed to blink away the bright spots that swam before his eyes, he found not a sword pointed at his face, but a massive hand reaching down to help him back to his feet.
“Dawnbringer,” Croy said, with proper reverence. “You wield Dawnbringer.”
“Yes. Will you take my hand,” the barbarian asked, “and call me brother?”
Croy grasped the barbarian’s wrist gratefully, and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. Dawnbringer was already back in the barbarian’s scabbard. Croy sheathed Ghostcutter, and stepped forward into a warm embrace.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I think … they’re hugging each other,” Malden said. He was lying on the stairs above the common room, watching the fight and reporting on it to Cythera and Coruth, who were standing in the doorway of the private chamber. “They’ve put their swords away. They’re … talking. They actually look quite friendly.”
“Good. It’s over,” Coruth said. “Now we can eat.” She stepped back through the door and disappeared. Cythera glanced down at Malden, threw up her hands in resignation, and followed.
Malden found the two of them sitting at table, picking apart a cheese between them. “But,” he said, “it was—it looked like it was to be a fight to the death,” he said. “Clearly they were going to kill each other.”
“Yet for some reason they’ve decided not to,” Cythera pointed out.
“You saw the big man, though. He’s a beast! The bloodlust had him. What kind of man can just go from wanting to kill an enemy to embracing him like that?” Cythera shot him a knowing look, and it was Malden’s turn to shrug. “Other than Croy, I mean. I admit that’s exactly the kind of thing Croy would do.”
Cythera and Coruth nodded in unison.
Croy had a sense of honor that other people often found confusing. Malden thought of it as sheer stupidity, but sometimes he was glad enough for it. One of his tenets was that he tried never to let anger overcome him when he was fighting, so that he never struck anyone down for ignoble reasons. More than once Malden had benefited personally from that compunction. “I still don’t see it, though. The barbarian just left six men in a moaning heap. He maimed some of them for life. Now Croy’s acting like this fellow’s as blameless as an honest priest.”
“Don’t try to figure out Croy’s reasons,” Coruth said. “You’ll tie your own brains in knots.”
“I usually just wait for him to explain himself later,” Cythera pointed out. “He’s never shy about telling me how things ought to be. Or how he thinks they should be, at any rate.”
Malden pursed his lips. “I noticed that earlier. When he was talking about how he would lock you away in his castle so you could have his babies. He made it sound quite … safe.”
“There are worse things in this world than being secure.”
Malden stopped himself from speaking. He wasn’t sure how much he could say in Coruth’s presence. Yet he longed to be alone with Cythera so he could discuss things with her. There had been a time when she had seemed to care for him. More than that, perhaps. She had seemed to love him. After her father died, and she was free to renew her pledge to marry Croy, that had all seemed to just melt away.
For her, anyway. Malden’s feelings for her were just as strong as ever.
When Croy had invited him here today, to witness the banns, he had accepted in a state of pure denial. He couldn’t believe Cythera would actually sign the document and go through with the marriage. She had seemed so nervous—almost as nervous as Croy. Malden had been certain she would say no at the last moment. Reject Croy, refuse to marry him, because she still loved Malden.
But then the barbarian had shown up and thrown everything into disarray. And now he had no idea what to think.
“Cythera,” he said. “You and I should have a talk at some point, about—”
“Malden,” Cythera said, cutting him off before he could finish his thought, “the watch will be here at any moment. They’ll have a lot of questions, and they may try to take this stranger away. In the meantime, we have a moment’s peace. It’s even quiet for—”
They all flinched, then, as the booming, demonic laughter came once more from below. Malden tensed and reached for the bodkin at his belt, but when there was no sound of ringing swords or screams of agony, he dropped into a chair and shook his head.
“—mostly quiet, for now,” Cythera amended. “We’ll all have to leave very shortly, so perhaps we should make use of this groaning board before we have to flee.”
Malden could see the wisdom in that. He nodded, but said, “Later, then. But we will speak, won’t we?”
“As you wish!” Cythera said, seeming more than a little annoyed.
Malden knew better than to push the point. He took an eating knife from the table and speared a slice of ham. He glanced over at Coruth. She was downing a goblet of wine, so fast it was spilling down the front of her tunic. If the witch had read anything into the conversation between the thief and her daughter, she seemed oblivious now.
“He’s a barbarian,” Coruth said, when she had emptied her cup. She reached for the flagon to refill it. “If you’re wondering.”
“You didn’t even see him,” Malden said.
Coruth grabbed a roasted leg of chicken from a plate. “Don’t need to.”
Malden frowned. “You sense his nature, on some subtle current in the ether? Is that it? Have you plumbed his heart with your witchery?”
“Don’t need that, either. Only a barbarian laughs like that. Like his death could come for him at any minute and he’s looking forward to it.” The witch put down the bone she’d been gnawing and sat back in her chair. “They’re different, out there on the eastern steppes. Unsophisticated, some might say. They live in a more violent world, that’s for sure. They have no gods but death, and they fight like animals.” She stared into the middle distance and smiled. “Make love like animals, too.”
“Mother,” Cythera said, spreading butter on a piece of brown bread, “if you know that from personal experience, I’d prefer not to hear the story.”
Heavy footsteps came clomping up the stairs, and the two swordsmen bustled into the room. The barbarian had a fresh bandage around his forearm but the bleeding wound on his chest was left exposed. He had one massive arm around Croy’s shoulders.
