The Blade Itself

“That’s all of them,” said the woman.

“I know.” Her brother sighed deep. “Must one do everything oneself?”

Ferro glanced up at them as she pushed the bloody sword back through her belt. They were sitting carelessly on their horses not far off, the sun bright behind them, smiles on their cruel, handsome faces. They were dressed like lords, silk flapping round them in the breeze, heavy with jewellery, but neither one was armed. Ferro scrambled for her bow.

“Be careful, brother,” said the woman, examining her fingernails. “She fights well.”

“Like a devil! But she is no match for me, sister, have no fear.” He sprang down from his saddle. “So then, Maljinn, shall we…”

The arrow stuck him through the chest, deep through, with a hollow thud.

“…begin?” The shaft quivered, its point glittering behind him, dry and bloodless. He began to walk towards her. Her next arrow caught him through the shoulder, but he only came on faster, breaking into a run, bounding forward with enormous strides. She dropped the bow, fingers fumbling for the grip of her sword. Too slow. His outstretched arm caught her across the chest with terrible force, slamming her into the earth.

“Oh, well done, brother!” The woman clapped her hands with delight. “Well done!”

Ferro rolled coughing in the dust. She saw the man watching her as she struggled to her feet, the sword clutched in both hands. She swung it at him, a great overhead arc. It bit deep into the earth. Somehow he had already danced aside. A foot came out of nowhere and sank into her stomach. She doubled over, powerless, the air driven from her body. Her fingers twitched, the sword was left stuck in the ground, her knees wobbled.

“And now…” Something crunched into her nose. Her legs buckled and the ground hit her hard in the back. She rolled groggily to her knees, the world turning over around her. There was blood on her face. She blinked and shook her head, trying to stop the world from spinning. The man was moving towards her, tipping, blurry. He jerked her arrow out of his chest and tossed it away. There was no blood, just a little dust. Just dust, curling in the air.

An Eater. He had to be.

Ferro stumbled up, pulling the knife from her belt. She thrust at him, missed, thrust again, missed again. Her head was swimming. She screamed, slashing at him with all her might.

He caught her wrist in his hand. Their faces were less than a foot apart. His skin was perfect, smooth, like dark glass. He looked young, almost like a child, but his eyes were old. Hard eyes. He watched her—curious, amused, like a boy who found an interesting beetle. “She doesn’t give up, does she, sister?”

“Very fierce! The Prophet will be delighted with her!”

The man sniffed at Ferro and wrinkled his nose. “Ugh. She’d better be washed first.”

She butted him in the face. His head snapped back but he only giggled. He caught her round the throat with his free hand, shoved her out to arm’s length. She clawed at his face but his arm was too long, she couldn’t reach. He was prising her fingers from the handle of the knife. His grip was iron around her neck. She couldn’t breathe. She bared her teeth, struggling, snarling, thrashing. All in vain.

“Alive, brother! We want her alive!”

“Alive,” murmured the man, “but not unharmed.”

The woman giggled. Ferro’s feet left the ground, kicking at the air. She felt one of her fingers snap and the knife dropped to the grass. The hand gripped tighter round her neck, and she tore at it with broken nails. All in vain. The bright world began to turn dark.

Ferro heard the woman laughing, far away. A face swam out of the darkness, a hand stroked Ferro’s cheek. The fingers were soft, warm, gentle.

“Be still, child,” whispered the woman. Her eyes were dark and deep. Ferro could feel her breath, hot and fragrant on her face. “You are hurt, you must rest. Be still now… sleep.” Ferro’s legs were heavy as lead. She kicked weakly, one last time, then her body sagged. Her heart beat slow…

“Rest now.” Ferro’s eyelids began to droop, the woman’s beautiful face grew blurred.

“Sleep.” Ferro bit down hard on her tongue, and her mouth turned salty.

“Be still.” Ferro spat blood in the woman’s face.

“Gah!” she shouted in disgust, wiping blood from her eyes. “She fights me!”

“Her kind fight everything,” came the man’s voice, just behind Ferro’s ear.

“Now listen to me, whore!” hissed the woman, clutching Ferro’s jaw with steely fingers and yanking her face this way and that. “You are coming with us! With us! One way or another! You hear me?”

“She goes nowhere.” Another voice, deep and mellow. It seemed familiar. Ferro blinked, shook her head groggily. The woman had turned, looking at an old man, not far away. Yulwei. His bangles jingled as he padded softly across the grass. “Are you alive, Ferro?”

“Gugh,” she croaked.

The woman sneered at Yulwei. “Who are you, old bastard?”

Yulwei sighed. “I am an old bastard.”

“Get you gone, dog!” shouted the man. “We come from the Prophet. From Khalul himself!”

“And she comes with us!”