The King of the Northmen

Logen breathed in deep, enjoying the unfamiliar feel of the cool breeze on his fresh-shaved jaw, and took in the view. It was the beginning of a clear day. The dawn mist was almost gone, and from the balcony outside Logen’s room, high up on the side of one of the towers of the library, you could see for miles. The great valley was spread out before him, split into stark layers. On top was the grey and puffy white of the cloudy sky. Then there was the ragged line of black crags that ringed the lake, and the dim brown suggestion of others beyond. Next came the dark green of the wooded slopes, then the thin, curving line of grey shingle on the beach. All was repeated in the still mirror of the lake below—another, shadowy world, upside down beneath his own.

Logen looked down at his hands, fingers spread out on the weathered stone of the parapet. There was no dirt, no dried blood under his cracked fingernails. They looked pale, soft, pinkish, strange. Even the scabs and scrapes on his knuckles were mostly healed. It was so long since Logen had been clean that he’d forgotten what it felt like. His new clothes were coarse against his skin, robbed of its usual covering of dirt and grease and dry sweat.

Looking out at the still lake, clean and well fed, he felt a different man. For a moment he wondered how this new Logen might turn out, but the bare stone of the parapet stared back at him where his missing finger used to be. That could never heal. He was Ninefingers still, the Bloody-Nine, and always would be. Unless he lost any more fingers. He did smell better though, that had to be admitted.

“Did you sleep well, Master Ninefingers?” Wells was in the doorway, peering out onto the balcony.

“Like a baby.” Logen didn’t have the heart to tell the old servant that he’d slept outside. The first night he’d tried the bed, rolling and wriggling, unable to come to terms with the strange comfort of a mattress and the unfamiliar warmth of blankets. Next he’d tried the floor. That had been an improvement. But the air had still seemed close, flat, stale. The ceiling had hung over him, seeming to creep ever lower, threatening to crush him with the weight of stone above. It was only when he’d lain down on the hard flags of the balcony, with his old coat spread over him and just the clouds and the stars above, that sleep had come. Some habits are hard to break.

“You have a visitor,” said Wells.

“Me?”

Malacus Quai’s head appeared around the door frame. His eyes were a little less sunken, the bags underneath them a little less dark. There was some colour to his skin, and some flesh on his bones. He no longer looked like a corpse, just gaunt and sick, as he had done when Logen first met him. He guessed that was about as healthy as Quai ever looked.

“Hah!” laughed Logen. “You survived!”

The apprentice gave a series of tired nods as he shambled across the room. He was swathed in a thick blanket which trailed on the floor and made it difficult for him to walk properly. He shuffled out of the door to the balcony and stood there, sniffing and blinking in the chill morning air.

Logen was more pleased to see him than he’d expected. He clapped him on the back like an old friend, perhaps a little too warmly. The apprentice stumbled, blanket tangled round his feet, and would have fallen if Logen hadn’t put out an arm to steady him.

“Still not quite in fighting shape,” muttered Quai, with a weak grin.

“You look a deal better than when I last saw you.”

“So do you. You lost the beard I see, and the smell too. A few less scars and you’d look almost civilised.”

Logen held his hands up. “Anything but that.”

Wells ducked through the doorway into the bright morning light. He had a roll of cloth and a knife in his hand. “Could I see your arm, Master Ninefingers?”

Logen had almost forgotten about the cut. There was no new blood on the bandage, and when he unwound it there was a long, red-brown scab underneath, running almost all the way from wrist to elbow, surrounded by fresh pink skin. It hardly hurt any more, just itched. It crossed two other, older scars. One, a jagged grey effort near his wrist, he thought he might have got in the duel with Threetrees, all those years ago. Logen grimaced as he remembered the battering they’d given each other. The second scar, fainter, higher up, he wasn’t sure about. Could’ve come from anywhere.

Wells bent down and tested the flesh round the wound while Quai peered cautiously over his shoulder. “It’s mending well. You’re a fast healer.”

“Lots of practice.”

Wells looked up at Logen’s face, where the cut on his forehead had already faded to one more pink line. “I can see. Would it be foolish to advise you to avoid sharp objects in the future?”

Logen laughed. “Believe it or not, I always did my best to avoid them in the past. But they seem to seek me out, despite my efforts.”

“Well,” said the old servant, cutting off a fresh length of cloth and winding it carefully round Logen’s forearm, “I hope this is the last bandage you ever need.”

“So do I,” said Logen, flexing his fingers. “So do I.” But he didn’t think it would be.

“Breakfast will be ready soon.” And Wells left the two of them alone on the balcony.

They stood there in silence for a moment, then the wind blew up cold from the valley. Quai shivered and pulled his blanket tight around him. “Out there… by the lake. You could have left me. I would have left me.”

Logen frowned. Time was he’d have done it and never given it a second thought, but things change. “I’ve left a lot of people, in my time. Reckon I’m sick of that feeling.”

The apprentice pursed his lips and looked out at the valley, the woods, the distant mountains. “I never saw a man killed before.”

“You’re lucky.”

“You’ve seen a lot of death, then?”

Logen winced. In his youth, he would have loved to answer that very question. He could have bragged, and boasted, and listed the actions he’d been in, the Named Men he’d killed. He couldn’t say now when the pride had dried up. It had happened slowly. As the wars became bloodier, as the causes became excuses, as the friends went back to the mud, one by one. Logen rubbed at his ear, felt the big notch that Tul Duru’s sword had made, long ago. He could have stayed silent. But for some reason, he felt the need to be honest.

“I’ve fought in three campaigns,” he began. “In seven pitched battles. In countless raids and skirmishes and desperate defences, and bloody actions of every kind. I’ve fought in the driving snow, the blasting wind, the middle of the night. I’ve been fighting all my life, one enemy or another, one friend or another. I’ve known little else. I’ve seen men killed for a word, for a look, for nothing at all. A woman tried to stab me once for killing her husband, and I threw her down a well. And that’s far from the worst of it. Life used to be cheap as dirt to me. Cheaper.

“I’ve fought ten single combats and I won them all, but I fought on the wrong side and for all the wrong reasons. I’ve been ruthless, and brutal, and a coward. I’ve stabbed men in the back, burned them, drowned them, crushed them with rocks, killed them asleep, unarmed, or running away. I’ve run away myself more than once. I’ve pissed myself with fear. I’ve begged for my life. I’ve been wounded, often, and badly, and screamed and cried like a baby whose mother took her tit away. I’ve no doubt the world would be a better place if I’d been killed years ago, but I haven’t been, and I don’t know why.”

He looked down at his hands, pink and clean on the stone. “There are few men with more blood on their hands than me. None, that I know of. The Bloody-Nine they call me, my enemies, and there’s a lot of ’em. Always more enemies, and fewer friends. Blood gets you nothing but more blood. It follows me now, always, like my shadow, and like my shadow I can never be free of it. I should never be free of it. I’ve earned it. I’ve deserved it. I’ve sought it out. Such is my punishment.”

And that was all. Logen breathed a deep, ragged sigh and stared out at the lake. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the man beside him, didn’t want to see the expression on his face. Who wants to learn he’s keeping company with the Bloody-Nine? A man who’s wrought more death than the plague, and with less regret. They could never be friends now, not with all those corpses between them.

Then he felt Quai’s hand clap him on the shoulder. “Well, there it is,” he said, grinning from ear to ear, “but you saved me, and I’m right grateful for it!”

“I’ve saved a man this year, and only killed four. I’m born again.” And they both laughed for a while, and it felt good.

“So, Malacus, I see you are back with us.”

They turned, Quai stumbling on his blanket and looking a touch sick. The First of the Magi was standing in the doorway, dressed in a long white shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He still looked more like a butcher than a wizard to Logen.

“Master Bayaz… er… I was just coming to see you,” stuttered Quai.

“Indeed? How fortunate for us both then, that I have come to you.” The Magus stepped out onto the balcony. “It occurs to me that a man who is well enough to talk, and laugh, and venture out of doors, is doubtless well enough to read, and study, and expand his tiny mind. What would you say to that?”

“Doubtless…”

“Doubtless, yes! Tell me, how are your studies progressing?”

The wretched apprentice looked utterly confused. “They have been somewhat… interrupted?”

“You made no progress with Juvens’ Principles of Art while you were lost in the hills in bad weather?”

“Er… no progress… no.”

“And your knowledge of the histories. Did that develop far, while Master Ninefingers was carrying you back to the library?”

“Er… I must confess… it didn’t.”

“Your exercises and meditations though, surely you have been practising those, while unconscious this past week?”

“Well, er… no, the unconsciousness was… er…”

“So, tell me, would you say that you are ahead of the game, so to speak? Or have your studies fallen behind?”

Quai stared down at the floor. “They were behind when I left.”

“Then perhaps then you could tell me where you plan to spend the day?”

The apprentice looked up hopefully. “At my desk?”

“Excellent!” Bayaz smiled wide. “I was about to suggest it, but you have anticipated me! Your keenness to learn does you much credit!” Quai nodded furiously and hurried towards the door, the hem of his blanket trailing on the flags.

“Bethod is coming,” murmured Bayaz. “He will be here today.” Logen’s smile vanished, his throat felt suddenly tight. He remembered their last meeting well enough. Stretched out on his face on the floor of Bethod’s hall at Carleon, beaten and broken and well chained up, dribbling blood into the straw and hoping the end wouldn’t be too long coming. Then, no reason given, they’d let him go. Flung him out the gates with the Dogman, Threetrees, the Weakest and the rest, and told him never to come back. Never. The first time Bethod ever showed a grain of mercy, and the last, Logen didn’t doubt.

“Today?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even.

“Yes, and soon. The King of the Northmen. Hah! The arrogance of him!” Bayaz glanced sidelong at Logen. “He is coming to ask me for a favour, and I would like you to be there.”

“He won’t like that.”

“Exactly.”

The wind felt colder than before. If Logen never saw Bethod again it would be far too soon. But some things have to be done. It’s better to do them, than to live with the fear of them. That’s what Logen’s father would have said. So he took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “I’ll be there.”

“Excellent. Then there is but one thing missing.”

“What?”

Bayaz smirked. “You need a weapon.”

It was dry in the cellars beneath the library. Dry and dark and very, very confusing. They’d gone up and down steps, around corners, past doors, taking here or there a turning to the left or right. The place was a warren. Logen hoped he didn’t lose sight of the wizard’s flickering torch, or he could easily be stuck beneath the library for ever.

“Dry down here, nice and dry,” Bayaz was saying to himself, voice echoing down the passageway and merging with their flapping footfalls. “There’s nothing worse than damp for books.” He pulled up suddenly next to a heavy door. “Or for weapons.” He gave the door a gentle shove and it swung silently open.

“Look at that! Hasn’t been opened for years, but the hinges still move smooth as butter! That’s craftsmanship for you! Why does no one care about craftsmanship anymore?” Bayaz stepped over the threshold without waiting for an answer, and Logen followed close behind.

The wizard’s torch lit up a long, low hall with walls of rough stone blocks, the far end lost in shadows. The room was lined with racks and shelves, the floor littered with boxes and stands, everything heaped and bursting with a mad array of arms and armour. Blades and spikes and polished surfaces of wood and metal caught the flickering torchlight as Bayaz paced slowly across the stone floor, weaving between the weapons and casting around.

“Quite a collection,” muttered Logen, as he followed the Magus through the clutter.

“A load of old junk mostly, but there should be a few things worth the finding.” Bayaz took a helmet from a suit of ancient, gilded plate armour and looked it over with a frown. “What do you make of that?”

“I’ve never been much for armour.”

“No, you don’t strike me as the type. All very well on horseback, I dare say, but it’s a pain in the arse when you’ve a journey to make on foot.” He tossed the helmet back onto its stand, then stood there staring at the armour, lost in thought. “Once you’ve got it on, how do you piss?”

Logen frowned. “Er…” he said, but Bayaz was already moving off down the room, and taking the light with him.

“You must have used a few weapons in your time, Master Ninefingers. What’s your preference for?”

“I’ve never really had one,” said Logen, ducking under a rusty halberd leaning out from a rack. “A champion never knows what he might be called on to fight with.”

“Of course, of course.” Bayaz took up a long spear with a vicious barbed head, and wafted it around a bit. Logen stepped back cautiously. “Deadly enough. You could keep a man at bay with one of these. But a man with a spear needs a lot of friends, and they all need spears as well.” Bayaz shoved it back on the rack and moved on.

“This looks fearsome.” The Magus took hold of the gnarled shaft of a huge double-bladed axe. “Shit!” he said as he lifted it up, veins bulging out of his neck. “It’s heavy enough!” He set it down with a thump, making the rack wobble. “You could kill a man with that! You could cut him clean in half! If he was standing still.”

“This is better,” said Logen. It was a simple, solid-looking sword, in a scabbard of weathered brown leather.

“Oh, yes indeed. Much, much better. That blade is the work of Kanedias, the Master Maker himself.” Bayaz handed his torch to Logen and took the long sword from the rack.

“Has it ever occurred to you, Master Ninefingers, that a sword is different from other weapons? Axes and maces and so forth are lethal enough, but they hang on the belt like dumb brutes.” He ran an eye over the hilt, plain cold metal scored with faint grooves for a good grip, glinting in the torchlight. “But a sword… a sword has a voice.”

“Eh?”

“Sheathed it has little to say, to be sure, but you need only put your hand on the hilt and it begins to whisper in your enemy’s ear.” He wrapped his fingers tightly round the grip. “A gentle warning. A word of caution. Do you hear it?”

Logen nodded slowly. “Now,” murmured Bayaz, “compare it to the sword half drawn.” A foot length of metal hissed out of the sheath, a single silver letter shining near the hilt. The blade itself was dull, but its edge had a cold and frosty glint. “It speaks louder, does it not? It hisses a dire threat. It makes a deadly promise. Do you hear it?”

Logen nodded again, his eye fastened on that glittering edge. “Now compare it to the sword full drawn.” Bayaz whipped the long blade from its sheath with a faint ringing sound, brought it up so that the point hovered inches from Logen’s face. “It shouts now, does it not? It screams defiance! It bellows a challenge! Do you hear it?”

“Mmm,” said Logen, leaning back and staring slightly crosseyed at the shining point of the sword.

Bayaz let it drop and slid it gently back into its scabbard, something to Logen’s relief. “Yes, a sword has a voice. Axes and maces and so forth are lethal enough, but a sword is a subtle weapon, and suited to a subtle man. You I think, Master Ninefingers, are subtler than you appear.” Logen frowned as Bayaz held the sword out to him. He had been accused of many things in his life, but never subtlety. “Consider it a gift. My thanks for your good manners.”

Logen thought about it a moment. He hadn’t owned a proper weapon since before he crossed the mountains, and he wasn’t keen to take one up again. But Bethod was coming, and soon. Better to have it, and not want it, than to want it, and not have it. Far, far better. You have to be realistic about these things.

“Thank you,” said Logen, taking the sword from Bayaz and handing him back the torch. “I think.”

A small fire crackled in the grate, and the room was warm, and homely, and comfortable.

But Logen didn’t feel comfortable. He stood by the window, staring down into the courtyard below, nervous and twitchy and scared, like he used to be before a fight. Bethod was coming. He was somewhere out there. On the road through the woods, or passing between the stones, or across the bridge, or through the gate.

The First of the Magi didn’t seem tense. He sat comfortably in his chair, his feet up on the table next to a long wooden pipe, leafing through a small white-bound book with a faint smile on his face. No one had ever looked calmer, and that only made Logen feel worse.

“Is it good?” asked Logen.

“Is what good?”

“The book.”

“Oh yes. It is the best of books. It is Juvens’ Principles of Art, the very cornerstone of my order.” Bayaz waved his free hand at the shelves which covered two walls, and the hundreds of other identical books lined neatly upon them. “It’s all the same. One book.”

“One?” Logen’s eyes scanned across the thick, white spines. “That’s a pretty damn long book. Have you read it all?”

Bayaz chuckled. “Oh yes, many times. Every one of my order must read it, and eventually make their own copy.” He turned the book around, so that Logen could see. The pages were thickly covered with lines of neat, but unintelligible symbols. “I wrote these, long ago. You should read it too.”

“I’m really not much of a reader.”

“No?” asked Bayaz. “Shame.” He flicked over the page and carried on.

“What about that one?” There was another book, sat alone on its side on the very top of one of the shelves, a large, black book, scarred and battered-looking. “That written by this Juvens as well?”

Bayaz frowned up at it. “No. His brother wrote that.” He got up from his chair, stretched up and pulled it down. “This is a different kind of knowledge.” He dragged open his desk drawer, slid the black book inside and slammed it shut. “Best left alone,” he muttered, sitting back down and opening up the Principles of Art again.

Logen took a deep breath, put his left hand on the hilt of the sword, felt the cold metal pressing into his palm. The feel of it was anything but reassuring. He let go and turned back to the window, frowning down into the courtyard. He felt his breath catch in his throat.

“Bethod. He’s here.”

“Good, good,” muttered Bayaz absently. “Who does he have with him?”

Logen peered at the three figures in the courtyard. “Scale,” he said with a scowl. “And a woman. I don’t recognise her. They’re dismounting.” Logen licked his dry lips. “They’re coming in.”

“Yes, yes,” murmured Bayaz, “that is how one gets to a meeting. Try to calm yourself, my friend. Breathe.”

Logen leaned back against the whitewashed plaster, arms folded, and took a deep breath. It didn’t help. The hard knot of worry in his chest only pressed harder. He could hear heavy footsteps in the corridor outside. The doorknob turned.

Scale was the first into the room. Bethod’s eldest son had always been burly, even as a boy, but since Logen last saw him he’d grown monstrous. His rock of a head seemed almost an afterthought on top of all that brawn, his skull a good deal narrower than his neck. He had a great block of jaw, a flat stub of a nose, and furious, bulging, arrogant little eyes. His thin mouth was twisted in a constant sneer, much like his younger brother Calder’s, but there was less guile here and a lot more violence. He had a heavy broadsword on his hip, and his meaty hand was never far from it as he glowered at Logen, oozing malice from every pore.

The woman came next. She was very tall, slender and pale, almost ill-looking. Her slanting eyes were as narrow and cold as Scale’s were bulging and wrathful, and were surrounded with a quantity of dark paint, which made them look narrower and colder still. There were golden rings on her long fingers, golden bracelets on her thin arms, golden chains around her white neck. She swept the room with her frosty blue eyes, each thing she noticed seeming to lift her to new heights of disgust and contempt. First the furniture, then the books, particularly Logen, and Bayaz most of all.

The self-styled King of the Northmen came last, and more magnificent than ever, robed in rich, coloured cloth and rare white furs. He wore a heavy golden chain across his shoulders, a golden circlet round his head, set with a single diamond, big as a bird’s egg. His smiling face was more deeply lined than Logen remembered, his hair and beard touched with grey, but he was no less tall, no less vigorous, no less handsome, and he’d gained much of authority and wisdom—of majesty even. He looked every inch a great man, a wise man, a just man. He looked every inch a King. But Logen knew better.

“Bethod!” said Bayaz, warmly, snapping his book shut. “My old friend! You can hardly imagine what a joy it is to see you again.” He swung his feet off the table, and gestured at the golden chain, the flashing diamond. “And to see you so hugely advanced in the world! I remember the time was you were happy to visit me alone. But I suppose great men must be attended on, and I see you have brought some… other people. Your charming son I know, of course. I see that you’ve been eating well at least, eh, Scale?”

“Prince Scale,” rumbled Bethod’s monstrous son, his eyes popping out even more.

“Hmm,” said Bayaz, with an eyebrow raised. “I have not had the pleasure of meeting your other companion before.”

“I am Caurib.” Logen blinked. The woman’s voice was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. Calming, soothing, intoxicating. “I am a sorceress,” she sang, tossing her head with a scornful smile. “A sorceress, from the utmost north.” Logen stood frozen, his mouth half open. His hatred seeped away. They were all friends here. More than friends. He couldn’t take his eyes from her, didn’t want to. The others in the room had faded. It was as if she was speaking only to him, and the fondest wish of his heart was that she should never stop—

But Bayaz only laughed. “A real sorceress, and you have the golden voice! How wonderful! It’s a long time since I heard that one, but it will not serve you here.” Logen shook his head clear and his hatred rushed back in, hot and reassuring. “Tell me, does one have to study, to become a sorceress? Or is it simply a question of jewellery, and a deal of paint about the face?” Caurib’s eyes narrowed to deadly blue slits, but the First of the Magi didn’t give her time to speak. “And from the utmost north, imagine that!” He shivered slightly. “It must be cold up there, this time of year. Rough on the nipples, eh? Have you come to us for the warm weather, or is there something else?”

“I go where my King commands,” she hissed, pointed chin lifting a little higher.

“Your King?” asked Bayaz, staring about the room as though there must be someone else there, hiding in the corner.

“My father is King of the Northmen now!” snarled Scale. He sneered at Logen. “You should kneel to him, Bloody-Nine!” He sneered at Bayaz. “And so should you, old man!”

The First of the Magi spread his hands in apology. “Oh I’m afraid I don’t kneel to anyone. Too old for it. Stiffness in the joints, you see.”

Scale’s boot thumped heavy on the floor as he began to move forward, a curse half out of his mouth, but his father placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Come now, my son, there is no need for kneeling here.” His voice was cold and even as freshly fallen snow. “It is not fitting that we bicker. Are our interests not the same? Peace? Peace in the North? I have come only to ask for your wisdom, Bayaz, as I did in days past. Is it so wrong, to seek the help of an old friend?” No one had ever sounded more genuine, more reasonable, more trustworthy. But Logen knew better.

“But do we not have peace in the North already?” Bayaz leaned back in his chair, hands clasped before him. “Are the feuds not all ended? Were you not the victor? Do you not have everything you wanted, and more? King of the Northmen, eh? What help could I possibly offer you?”

“I only share my counsel with friends, Bayaz, and you have been no friend to me of late. You turn away my messengers, my son even. You play host to my sworn enemies.” He frowned towards Logen, and his lip curled. “Do you know what manner of thing this is? The Bloody-Nine? An animal! A coward! An oath-breaker! Is that the kind of company that you prefer?”

Bethod smiled a friendly smile as he turned back to Bayaz, but there was no missing the threat in his words. “I fear the time has come for you to decide whether you are with me, or against me. There can be no middle ground in this. Either you are a part of my future, or a relic of the past. Yours is the choice, my friend.” Logen had seen Bethod give such choices before. Some men had yielded. The rest had gone back to the mud.

But Bayaz, it seemed, was not to be rushed. “Which shall it be?” He reached forward slowly and took his pipe from the table. “The future, or the past?” He strolled over to the fire and squatted down, back turned to his three guests, took a stick from the grate, set it to the bowl, and puffed slowly away. It seemed to take an age for him to get the damn thing lit. “With, or against?” he mused as he returned to his chair.

“Well?” demanded Bethod.

Bayaz stared up at the ceiling and blew out a thin stream of yellow smoke. Caurib looked the old Magus up and down with icy contempt, Scale twitched with impatience, Bethod waited, eyes a little narrowed. Finally, Bayaz gave a heavy sigh. “Very well. I am with you.”

Bethod smiled wide, and Logen felt a lurch of terrible disappointment. He had hoped for better from the First of the Magi. Damn foolish, how he never learned to stop hoping.

“Good,” murmured the King of the Northmen. “I knew you would see my way of thinking, in the end.” He slowly licked his lips, like a hungry man watching good food brought in. “I mean to invade Angland.”

Bayaz raised an eyebrow, then he started to chuckle, then he thumped the table with his fist. “Oh that’s good, that’s very good! You find peace does not suit your kingdom, eh, Bethod? The clans are not used to being friends, are they? They hate each other and they hate you, am I right?”

“Well,” smiled Bethod, “they are somewhat restive.”

“I bet they are! But send them to war with the Union, then they will be a nation, eh? United against the common enemy, to be sure. And if you win? You’ll be the man who did the impossible! The man who drove the damn southerners out of the North! You’ll be loved, or at any rate, more feared than ever. If you lose, well, at least you keep the clans busy a while, and sap their strength in the process. I remember now why I used to like you! An excellent plan!”

Bethod looked smug. “Of course. And we will not lose. The Union is soft, arrogant, unprepared. With your help—”

“My help?” interrupted Bayaz. “You presume too much.”

“But you—”

“Oh, that.” The Magus shrugged. “I am a liar.”

Bayaz lifted his pipe to his mouth. There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Bethod’s eyes narrowed. Caurib’s widened. Scale’s heavy brow crinkled with confusion. Logen’s smile slowly returned.

“A liar?” hissed the sorceress. “And more besides, say I!” Her voice still had the singing note about it, but it was a different song now—hard, shrill, murderous sharp. “You old worm! Hiding here behind your walls, and your servants, and your books! Your time is long past, fool! You are nothing but words and dust!” The First of the Magi calmly pursed his lips and blew out smoke. “Words and dust, old worm! Well, we shall see. We will come to your library!” The wizard set his pipe carefully down on the table, a little smoke still curling up out of the bowl. “We will come back to your library, and put your walls to the hammer, your servants to the sword, and your books to the fire! To the—”

“Silence.” Bayaz was frowning now, deeper even than he had at Calder, days before in the yard outside. Again Logen felt the desire to step away, but stronger by far. He found himself glancing around the room for a place to hide. Caurib’s lips still moved, but only a meaningless croak came out.

“Break my walls, would you?” murmured Bayaz. His grey brows drew inwards, deep, hard grooves cutting into the bridge of his nose.

“Kill my servants, will you?” asked Bayaz. The room had turned very chill, despite the logs on the fire.

“Burn my books, say you?” thundered Bayaz. “You say too much, witch!” Caurib’s knees buckled. Her white hand clawed at the door-frame, chains and bangles jingling together as she slumped against the wall.

“Words and dust, am I?” Bayaz thrust up four fingers. “Four gifts you had of me, Bethod—the sun in winter, a storm in summer, and two things you could never have known, but for my Art. What have you given me in return, eh? This lake and this valley, which were mine already, and but one other thing.” Bethod’s eyes flicked across to Logen, then back. “You owe me still, yet you send messengers to me, you make demands, you presume to command me? That is not my idea of manners.”

Scale had caught up now, and his eyes were near popping out of his head. “Manners? What does a King need with manners? A King takes what he wants!” And he took a heavy step towards the table.

Now Scale was big enough and cruel enough, to be sure. Most likely you could never find a better man for kicking someone once he was down. But Logen wasn’t down, not yet, and he was good and sick of listening to this bloated fool. He stepped forward to block Scale’s path, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Far enough.”

The Prince looked Logen over with his bulging eyes, held up his meaty fist, squeezing his great fingers so the knuckles turned white. “Don’t tempt me Ninefingers, you broken cur! Your day’s long past! I could crush you like an egg!”

“You can try it, but I’ve no mind to let you. You know my work. One step more and I’ll set to work on you, you fucking swollen pig.”

“Scale!” snapped Bethod. “There is nothing for us here, that much is plain. We are leaving.” The hulking prince locked his great lump of a jaw, his huge hands clenching and unclenching by his sides, glowering at Logen with the most bestial hatred imaginable. Then he sneered, and slowly backed away.

Bayaz leaned forward. “You said you would bring peace to the North, Bethod, and what have you done? You have piled war on war! The land is bled white with your pride and your brutality! King of the Northmen? Hah! You’re not worth the helping! And to think, I had such high hopes for you!”

Bethod only frowned, his eyes as cold as the diamond on his forehead. “You have made an enemy of me, Bayaz, and I am a bad enemy to have. The very worst. You will yet regret this day’s work.” He turned his scorn on Logen. “As for you, Ninefingers, you will have no more mercy from me! Every man in the North will be your enemy now! You will be hated, and hunted, and cursed, wherever you go! I will see to it!”

Logen shrugged. There was nothing new there. Bayaz stood up from his chair. “You’ve said your piece, now take your witch and get you gone!”

Caurib stumbled from the room first, still gasping for air. Scale gave Logen one last scowl, then he turned and lumbered away. The so-called King of the Northmen was the last to leave, nodding slowly and sweeping the room with a deadly glare. As their footsteps faded down the corridor Logen took a deep breath, steadied himself, and let his hand drop from the hilt of the sword.

“So,” said Bayaz brightly, “that went well.”