Swords & Dark Magic - By Jonathan Strahan Page 0,191

a quick stop.

“Cut your head off,” whispered Never, eyes all scary-wide.

“Pull your guts out and cook ’em,” growled Jolly Yon.

“Skin your face off and wear it as a mask,” rumbled Brack.

“Use your cock for a spoon,” said Wonderful. They all thought about that for a moment.

“Right then,” said Craw. “Nice and careful, and let’s get in that hall without no one noticing and get us that thing. Above all…” And he swept the lot of ’em with his sternest look, a half circle of dirt-smeared, scar-pocked, bright-eyed, beard-fuzzed faces. His crew. His family. “Nobody die, eh? Weapons.”

Quick, sharp, and with no grumbling now the work was at their feet, Craw’s crew got ready for action, each one smooth and practiced with their gear as a weaver with his loom, weapons neat as their clothes were ragged, bright and clean as their faces were dirty. Belts, straps, and bootlaces hissed tight, metal scraped, rattled, and rang, and all the while Scorry’s song floated out, soft and high.

Craw’s hands moved by themselves through the old routines, mind wandering back across the years to other times he’d done it, other places, other faces around him, a lot of ’em gone back to the mud long ago. A few he’d buried with his own hands. He hoped none of these folk died today, and became nothing but dirt and worn-out memories. He checked his shield, grip bound in leather all tight and sturdy, straps firm. He checked his knife, his backup knife, and his backup backup knife, all tight in their sheaths. You can never have too many knives, someone once told him, and it was solid advice, provided you were careful how you stowed ’em and didn’t fall over and get your own blade in your fruits.

Everyone had their work to be about. Except Whirrun. He just bowed his head as he lifted his sword gently from the tree-trunk, holding it under the crosspiece by its stained leather scabbard, sheathed blade longer’n one of his own long legs. Then he pushed his hood back, scrubbed one hand through his flattened hair, and stood watching the others, head on one side.

“That the only blade you carry?” asked Craw as he stowed his own sword at his hip, hoping to draw the tall man in, start to build some trust with him. Tight crew like this was, a bit of trust might save your life. Might save everyone’s.

Whirrun’s eyes swiveled to him. “This is the Father of Swords, and men have a hundred names for it. Dawn Razor. Grave-Maker. Blood Harvest. Highest and Lowest. Scac-ang-Gaioc in the valley tongue which means the Splitting of the World, the Battle that was fought at the start of time and will be fought again at its end.” For a moment he had Craw wondering if he’d list the whole bloody hundred but thankfully he stopped there, frowning at the hilt, wound with dull grey wire. “This is my reward and my punishment both. This is the only blade I need.”

“Bit long for eating with, no?” asked Wonderful, strutting up from the other side.

Whirrun bared his teeth at her. “That’s what these are for.”

“Don’t you ever sharpen it?” asked Craw.

“It sharpens me.”

“Right. Right y’are.” Just the style of nonsense Craw would’ve expected from Cracknut Leef or some other rune-tosser. He hoped Whirrun was as good with that great big blade as he was supposed to be, ’cause it seemed he brought nothing to the table as a conversationalist.

“Besides, to sharpen it you’d have to draw it,” said Wonderful, winking at Craw with the eye Whirrun couldn’t see.

“True.” Whirrun’s eyes slid up to her face. “And once the Father of Swords is drawn, it cannot be sheathed without—”

“Being blooded?” she finished for him. Didn’t take skill with the runes to see that coming, Whirrun must’ve said the same words a dozen times since they left Carleon. Enough for everyone to get somewhat tired of it.

“Blooded,” echoed Whirrun, voice full of portent.

Wonderful gave Craw a look. “You ever think, Whirrun of Bligh, you might take yourself a touch too serious?”

He tipped his head back and stared up into the sky. “I’ll laugh when I hear something funny.”

Craw felt Yon’s hand on his shoulder. “A word, chief?”

“’Course,” with a grin that took some effort.

He guided Craw away from the others a few steps, and spoke soft. The same words he always did before a fight. “If I die down there…”

“No one’s dying today,” snapped Craw, the same words he always used in