Swords & Dark Magic (58 page)

THIEVES OF DARING

Bill Willingham

Septavian is 24 or 25 by this time, still adventuring in the company of the Brothers Frogbarding. They work as mercenaries for the most part, in the much-fragmented northern kingdoms, traveling south on occasion to spend their pay and thieve in the large and wealthy port cities. Though the city is not specifically named in the following tale, it is widely assumed to be Vess, which is identified in other stories as a center for the practice of dark arts and the location of the wizard Ulmore’s winter palace.

From
A Probable Outline of Septavian’s Life and Adventures
by Walter Marsh

J
onar Frogbarding, the giant red-bearded northlander was dead, headless, on the upper landing, a victim of one of Ulmore’s roving guards, his infamous Golems Decapitant. His fair-haired brother Tywar was bleeding out at my feet on the main floor. Nothing I could do would help him. Too many deep wounds, each one a killing stroke. I watched the quickly expanding red lake spread out from the disordered pieces of him to luridly paint the floor’s elaborate central mosaic, hand-cut marble tiles of every conceivable color, depicting an imaginary monster attacking a ship at sea. Maybe not imaginary, I corrected myself, considering the other impossible things we’d encountered today. The blade that had dispatched Tywar lay on the floor beside him, apparently finally drained of whatever animating force had lent some manner of autonomous life to it.

I hadn’t seen Roe Zelazar, the black-haired, black-eyed Lemurian, since the four of us had breached the estate’s outer wall, more than an hour ago. Four thieves of daring, out on a wine-fueled lark, to make ourselves famous, at least among a select underworld set, by looting the vacant winter palace of Ulmore, the legendary Last Atlantean Sorcerer. As soon as we’d reached the first inner courtyard, Roe had whispered something frantic and unintelligible before running off in his own direction, leaving me with the brothers.

“I think he heard something,” Jonar had whispered. “Went to investigate.”

“I’m not inclined to stay here in the open, waiting for him,” I’d said.

“Nor I,” Tywar said.

So the three of us continued the raid without him, making our way past the outbuildings, over the lawn, sewn with spike-bottomed mantraps, among other snares and distractions, and to the main building, a fortress disguised as a palace. Once inside, we’d run into the real defenses, constructs of darkest sorcery, that worried and harried at us, room by room, step by step, steadily wearing us down, making us pay for every foot gained, until I had to watch the brothers, my friends and companions for the past three years, cut into lifeless bone and carcass.

Now it seemed I was on my own.

At this point, I’d forgotten any notion of robbery. I just wanted to find Roe and get free of this murder house. I didn’t really know the Lemurian. He was a companion of the moment, after a long night of drinking. Not a proven friend, like the brothers had been. But he’d set out on this foolhardy raid with us, and I’m not one to leave any companion behind, if I can help it.

Retreating back to the upper landing, where we’d made our original entry, was out of the question. It had been cut off as an avenue of escape by the blade-armed golems that had arrived in force by now. They blocked both stairways. They were fast, untiring, and near impossible to harm. One of them had been enough to overmatch Jonar. Though I was faster than the northlander, and a considerably smaller target, I had no illusions that I’d be able to make it past the three dozen or more that were up there now. At least they seemed content to remain on the upper landing. Assigned territories, perhaps?

There were six doorways attached to the large room I was in, plus a winding stairway leading down into the dark. Low, rumbling growls and coughs issued up from that, as if some great unearthly creature lurked below.

Staying where I was for any length of time seemed a bad idea. The room was filled with metal statues depicting mighty armored warriors. All but one of them held swords, spears, axes, or other weapons. The sword missing from the remaining statue was the one that had come to life long enough to butcher Tywar. I didn’t trust the other weapons to remain inanimate.

So which door do I try? This room seemed centrally located within the sprawling building. One door was as likely as any other to lead outside, or to a dead end.

While I was still considering my options, looking for any clue that might favor one possible exit over another, one of the doors opened and Roe Zelazar walked through it. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was.

“You’re free to go, Septavian,” he said. “I’ve no wish to harm you, or cause you any further distress. It was those two ruffians I was after.” His gesture took in most of the room, including the two corpses. His rough brown tunic and leggings of the night before were gone, replaced by black-and-grey robes of fine linen. He’d obviously found time to bathe and perfume himself, too, while we were being hunted and cut down.

“You’re the Wizard Ulmore?” I said.

“No, of course not. I’m merely one of his students. True, I’m one of his more accomplished students, whose duties happen to include looking after his winter residence when he’s absent.” Roe approached to just outside of a common sword range. A mistake on his part—possibly.

“And yet I seem to recall it was your idea to rob this place,” I said. We were already pretty deep in our cups, and bragging rather boisterously about our intent to do some bold act of mischief, when the Lemurian had joined us.

“Since you were clearly intent on thievery, I merely suggested the target. This is my adopted home, after all, and I have a strong sense of civic duty.”

“Luring unwary people into this death trap?”

“Identifying the brutes and vermin that infiltrate our community and disposing of them, before they can cause real harm.”

“A good wizard? A servant to his town and country?” I didn’t quite scoff at the notion—not quite.

“Exactly so. Sorcery is the foundation on which civilization is built. We devise comforts and luxuries not otherwise available through more ordinary means. Better food. Longer life. Not everyone is content to scratch out a meager existence in your wild lands, prey to anyone stronger in arm, or more savage in will. The elegant art is the final achievement of a life spent in exacting education and study. Only men of refinement and letters succeed. Compare that to the brutish existence of these northlanders and ask yourself, which life is better?”

“Not all of us are without letters,” I said.

“One of the reasons I singled you out from these others for clemency. And there was a practical consideration as well. Unless Septavian is a more common name than I’m given to understand, then you must be Septavian of the Waterhouse. If that’s true, and judging by your appearance and odd weapons I believe it is, then I’ve no wish to incur the wrath of your secretive martial brotherhood. Your people have a nasty reputation of finding and killing those who kill your own, even those of us well practiced in the dark arts.”

“I’m no longer associated with that society. I was forced to leave them under less than honorable circumstances. Kill me and I suspect the only reason they’d even think of hunting you down would be to thank you.” I always correct those who believe me to still be a part of the Waterhouse Brotherhood. Always. They’re more fanatic about hunting down those who pretend association with them than they are about those who kill one of their members.

“An odd moment for full candor,” Roe said. He paced, circling just out of sword reach, avoiding the bloodstain on the floor, which had already begun to grow tacky. Roe’s slippers whispered against the tiles. He was careful to keep his wary eyes on me. Though he might be willing to be friends, we weren’t there yet.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I can’t accept your offer anyway. Tywar and Jonar were friends. I have an obligation to try to avenge them.”

“They were thugs. Refined men owe nothing to such animals.”

“Nevertheless.”

“You won’t succeed. Nor will you survive this house. I’ve constructed so many wonderful snares, subtle and deadly. You’ve already met my Golems Decapitant. They’re just to ensure the mouse stays inside the trap.”

“I thought they were Ulmore’s creations.”

“Hardly. My master is great in power, but lacking in art. He wields his power strictly in the old ways, like a blunt instrument. That monstrous thing growling and groaning downstairs is one of his creatures, summoned up from one of the many hells where the old gods were thrown down. I created the other protections, constantly improving and refining them. That’s another reason why your two companions were invited to do their thieving here. My work needs frequent testing.”

“So it wasn’t all a selfless urge to better serve your adopted hometown.”

“Try one of the doors,” he said. “They all lead to freedom—eventually. But first you’ll have to get through my gauntlet. Survive the wire hounds and you’ll have to face the Shades Perilous, and perhaps then the fragrance room, or the black pattern, or—well, I’ve written a number of elegant murder stories, each one a variation on a central theme.”

“Care to tell me which door leads to which trap?”

“All to each. Choosing a specific door just changes the order in which you encounter them.”

“And how were you planning to let me get out alive?”

“By accompanying you. They won’t activate if I’m present.”

“Then I should bring you with me, shouldn’t I?” For the most part, swordplay in our world is a matter of closing with an opponent and hacking at him with the broad edge of a heavy blade. Roe was still safely outside the range of that sort of business. But at the Waterhouse, we’d learned a different kind of bladework, with improved weaponry. In a single motion, I drew my long, thin, and flexible waterblade from its sheath and thrust it, point-forward, in a deep lunge that more than doubled the effective range of a sword. Roe was taken entirely by surprise. My blade plunged deep into his chest. Several inches of its tip passed out the other side.

For a second, he just stood there, looking down at the sword stuck through him, a mild look of wonder on his face. Then he crumpled, lifeless, to the floor.

I put a foot in his gut, pulled my blade out from him, and wiped it off on his robes before sheathing it. With both hands free again, I picked up his corpse and hoisted it over one shoulder.

“I hope the protection of your company still works when you’re dead.”

I picked a door more or less at random and started towards it. Before I’d gone a dozen steps, I felt myself losing my grip on Roe’s body. It was rapidly growing lighter, and falling apart. I dropped the thing back on the floor and watched it turn to dust before my eyes. Then the dust turned into smaller specks that blew about for a bit, before disappearing entirely. Laughter echoed throughout the chamber.

“I withdraw my offer of release,” the voice said, coming from everywhere, or nowhere. It was unmistakably Roe’s voice. “You’ll just have to win your own way out. I doubt you’ll make it. No one ever has before. But I hope you do. Oddly, I’ve come to like you in our short acquaintance, and I’d enjoy continuing our conversation sometime.”

I didn’t reply. It seemed we’d said all that needed to be said. Since I was already pointed at one of the doors, I continued in that direction and opened it. There was a darkened corridor behind the door, leading only a few feet inward before it took a sharp right turn. I could smell a heavy and cloying musk from somewhere within, both attractive and repellent, fragrant decay. I also heard the distant sharpening of many knives, odd skittering sounds, and the musical notes of a thousand glass shards brushing against each other. The attractive part of the odor grew stronger, tugging at me, almost compelling me to enter.

I slammed the door and stepped back.

In the central room, the blade-armed golems had been released from whatever invisible force was confining them to the upper landing. They were shuffling down both staircases, increasing speed with each step. Swords and knives and spears were twisting and shaking in the grips of the statues, screeching, metal against metal, straining to be free of them. And the animal sounds from downstairs were growing louder, more agitated, and more proximate. Whatever it was down there was on its way up.

Okay, I may be in some trouble here.

JOE ABERCROMBIE attended Lancaster Royal Grammar School and Manchester University, where he studied psychology. He moved into television production before taking up a career as a freelance film editor. His first novel,
The Blade Itself,
was published in 2004, and was followed by two further books in the First Law trilogy,
Before They Are Hanged
and
Last Argument of Kings
. His most recent book is a stand-alone novel set in the same world,
Best Served Cold,
and he is currently at work on another,
The Heroes
. Joe now lives in Bath with his wife, Lou, and his daughters, Grace and Eve. He still occasionally edits concerts and music festivals for TV, but spends most of his time writing edgy yet humorous fantasy novels.

THE FOOL JOBS

Joe Abercrombie

C
raw chewed the hard skin around his nails, just like he always did. They hurt, just like they always did. He thought to himself that he really had to stop doing that. Just like he always did.

“Why is it,” he muttered under his breath, and with some bitterness too, “I always get stuck with the fool jobs?”

The village squatted in the fork of the river, a clutch of damp thatch roofs, scratty as an idiot’s hair, a man-high fence of rough-cut logs ringing it. Round wattle huts and three long halls dumped in the muck, ends of the curving wooden uprights on the biggest badly carved like dragon’s heads, or wolf’s heads, or something that was meant to make men scared but only made Craw nostalgic for decent carpentry. Smoke limped up from chimneys in muddy smears. Half-bare trees still shook browning leaves. In the distance the reedy sunlight glimmered on the rotten fens, like a thousand mirrors stretching off to the horizon. But without the romance.