The Blade Itself

Young men wore tight fitting jackets in bright crimson, green, or blue, festooned with ropes and knots of gold and silver thread. Women were hung with chains and rings of glittering gold and flashing jewels, wearing strange dresses of vivid cloth that were ridiculously loose and billowing in places, painfully tight in others, and left others still entirely, distractingly bare.

Even the servants were dressed like lords, prowling around behind the tables, leaning forward silently to fill goblets with sweet, thin wine. Logen had already drunk a deal of it, and the bright room had taken on a pleasant glow.

The problem was the lack of food. He hadn’t eaten since that morning and his stomach was growling. He’d been eyeing the jars of plants sat on the tables before the guests. They had bright flowers on them, and didn’t look much like food to him, but then they ate some strange things in this country.

There was nothing for it but to try. He snatched one of the things from the jar, a long piece of green plant with a yellow flower on the end. He took a nibble from the bottom of the stem. Tasteless and watery, but at least it was crunchy. He took a larger bite and munched on it without relish.

“I don’t think they’re meant for eating.” Logen glanced round, surprised to hear the Northern tongue spoken here, surprised that anyone was speaking to him at all. His neighbour, a tall, gaunt man with a sharp, lined face, was leaning towards him with an embarrassed smile. Logen recognised him vaguely. He’d been at the sword game—holding the blades for the lad from the gate.

“Ah,” mumbled Logen round his mouthful of plant. The taste of the stuff got worse with time. “Sorry,” he said once he had forced it down his throat, “I don’t know much about these things.”

“Honestly, neither do I. How did it taste?”

“Like shit.” Logen held the half-eaten flower uncertainly in his fingers. The tiled floor was spotlessly clean. It hardly seemed right to toss the thing under the table. There were no dogs anyway, and even if there had been he doubted they’d have eaten the thing. A dog would have had more sense than him. He dropped it on the metal platter and wiped his fingers on his chest, hoping that no one had noticed.

“My name is West,” said the man, offering his hand, “I come from Angland.”

Logen gave the hand a squeeze. “Ninefingers. A Brynn, from way up north of the High Places.”

“Ninefingers?” Logen waggled his stump at him and the man nodded. “Ah, I see.” He smiled as though remembering something funny. “I heard a song once, in Angland, about a nine-fingered man. What was he called now? The Bloody-Nine! That was it!” Logen felt his grin slipping. “One of those Northern songs, you know the kind, all violence. He cut off heads by the cartload, this Bloody-Nine, and burned towns, and mixed blood with his beer and whatnot. That wasn’t you, was it?”

The man was making a joke. Logen laughed nervously. “No, no, I never heard of him,” but luckily West had already moved on.

“Tell me, you look like you’ve seen some battles in your time.”

“I’ve been in some scrapes.” It was pointless to deny it.

“Do you know of this one they call the King of the Northmen? This man Bethod?”

Logen glanced sideways. “I know of him.”

“You fought against him in the wars?”

Logen grimaced. The sour taste of the plant seemed to be lingering in his mouth. He picked up his goblet and took a swallow. “Worse,” he said slowly as he set it down. “I fought for him.”

This only seemed to make the man more curious than ever. “Then you know about his tactics, and his troops. His way of making war?” Logen nodded. “What can you tell me about him?”

“That he’s a most cunning and ruthless opponent, with no pity or scruple in him. Make no mistake, I hate the man, but there’s been no war leader in his league since the days of Skarling Hoodless. He has that in him which men respect, or fear, or at least obey. He pushes his men hard, so he can make the field first and choose his own ground, but they march hard for him because he brings them victories. He’s cautious when he must be, and fearless when he must be, but neglects no detail. He delights in every trick of war—in setting traps and ambushes, in mounting feints and deceptions, in sending sudden raids against the unwary. Look for him where you expect him least, and expect him to be strongest where he seems the weakest. Beware him most of all when he seems to run. Most men fear him, and those that don’t are fools.”

Logen picked up the flower from the plate and started snapping it into pieces. “His armies are grouped about the chieftains of the clans, some of them strong war leaders in their own right. Most of his fighters are Thralls, peasants pressed into service, lightly armed with spear or bow, fast moving in loose groups. In the past they were ill-trained, and taken from their farms for only a short time, but the wars have been raging for so long that many of them have become hard fighters, and show scant mercy.”