The Blade Itself

“Bremer dan Gorst, I expect, will be a different sort of opponent, as will the others at this year’s Contest. Less of the veteran’s cunning, perhaps, but more of the vigour of youth, eh West?” West, at thirty, was still feeling somewhat vigorous, but there was no purpose in arguing. He knew he’d never been the most gifted swordsman in the world. “We have made great progress this past month, great progress. You have a chance, if you can maintain your focus. A definite chance! Well done! I will see you both tomorrow.” And the old Marshal strutted from the sunny courtyard.

West walked over to his fumbled steel, lying on the cobbles by the wall. His side was still aching from the fall, and he had to bend awkwardly to get it. “I have to be going, myself,” he grunted as he straightened up, trying to hide his discomfort as best he could.

“Important business?”

“Marshal Burr has asked to see me.”

“Is it to be war then?”

“Perhaps. I don’t know.” West looked Jezal up and down. He was avoiding West’s eye for some reason. “And you? What have you got in mind for today?”

Jezal fiddled with his steels. “Er, nothing planned… not really.” He glanced up furtively. For such a good card player, the man was a useless liar.

West felt a niggling of worry. “Ardee wouldn’t be involved in your lack of plans would she?”

“Erm…”

The niggling became a cold throbbing. “Well?”

“Maybe,” snapped Jezal, “well… yes.”

West stepped right up to the younger man. “Jezal,” he heard himself saying, slowly through gritted teeth, “I hope you’re not planning to fuck my sister.”

“Now look here—”

The throbbing boiled over. West’s hands gripped hold of Jezal by his shoulders. “No, you look!” he snarled. “I’ll not have her trifled with, you understand? She’s been hurt before, and I’ll not see her hurt any more! Not by you, not by anyone! I won’t stand for it! She’s not one of your games, you hear me?”

“Alright,” said Jezal, face suddenly pale. “Alright! I’ve no designs on her! We’re just friends is all. I like her! She doesn’t know anyone here and… you can trust me… there’s no harm in it! Ah! Get off me!”

West realised he was squeezing Jezal’s arms with all his strength. How had that happened? He’d only meant to have a quiet word, and now he’d gone way too far. Hurt before… damn it! He should never have said that! He let go suddenly, drew back, swallowing his fury. “I don’t want you seeing her any more, do you hear me?”

“Now hold on West, who are you to—”

West’s anger began to pulse again. “Jezal,” he growled, “I’m your friend, so I’m asking you.” He stepped forward again, closer than ever. “And I’m her brother, so I’m warning you. Stay away! No good can come of it!”

Jezal shrank back against the wall. “Alright… alright! She’s your sister!”

West turned and stalked towards the archway, rubbing the back of his neck, his head thumping.

Lord Marshal Burr was sitting and staring out of the window when West arrived at his offices. A big, grim, beefy man with a thick brown beard and a simple uniform. West wondered how bad the news would be. If the Marshal’s face was anything to go by it was very bad indeed.

“Major West,” he said, glaring up from under his heavy brows. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course, sir.” West noticed three roughly-made wooden boxes on a table by the wall. Burr saw him looking at them.

“Gifts,” he said sourly, “from our friend in the north, Bethod.”

“Gifts?”

“For the King, it seems.” The Marshal scowled and sucked at his teeth. “Why don’t you have a look at what he sent us, Major?”

West walked over to the table, reached out and cautiously opened the lid of one of the boxes. An unpleasant smell flowed out, like well-rotted meat, but there was nothing inside but some brown dirt. He opened the next box. The smell was worse. More brown dirt, caked around the inside, and some hair, some strands of yellow hair. West swallowed, looked up at the frowning Lord Marshal. “Is this all, sir?”

Burr snorted. “If only. The rest we had to bury.”

“Bury?”

The Marshal picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. “Captain Silber, Captain Hoss, Colonel Arinhorm. Those names mean anything to you?”

West felt sick. That smell. It reminded him of Gurkhul somehow, of the battlefield. “Colonel Arinhorm, I know,” he mumbled, staring at the three boxes, “by reputation. He’s commander of the garrison at Dunbrec.”

“Was,” corrected Burr, “and the other two commanded small outposts nearby, on the frontier.”

“The frontier?” mumbled West, but he already guessed what was coming.

“Their heads, Major. The Northmen sent us their heads.” West swallowed, looking at the yellow hairs stuck to the inside of the box. “Three signs, they said, when it was time.” Burr got up from his chair and stood, looking out of the window. “The outposts were nothing: wooden buildings mostly, a palisade wall, ditches and so on, lightly manned. Little strategic importance. Dunbrec is another matter.”

“It commands the fords on the Whiteflow,” said West numbly, “the best way out of Angland.”