Free The Blade Itself by Joe Abercrombie

nothing left to lose, and so on. Logen wasn’t worried, though. No one had
a reason to come to this arsehole of the world. No one but him and the Magus.
    So he sat and waited, looked for food, didn’t find
any, sat and waited some more. At this time of year the moors were often soaked
by sudden downpours, but he would have smoky, thorny little fires by night if
he could, to keep his flagging spirits up and attract any passing wizards. It
had been raining this evening, but it had stopped a while before and it was dry
enough for a fire. Now he had his pot over it, cooking a stew with the last of
the meat he had brought with him from the forest. He would have to move on in
the morning, and look for food. The Magus could catch up with him later, if he
still cared.
    He was stirring his meagre meal, and wondering whether
to go back north or move on south tomorrow, when he heard the sound of hooves
on the road. One horse, moving slowly. He sat back on his coat and waited.
There was a neigh, the jingle of a harness. A rider came over the rise. With
the watery sun low on the horizon behind, Logen couldn’t see him clearly, but
he sat stiff and awkward in his saddle, like a man not used to the road. He
urged his horse gently in the direction of the fire and reined in a few yards
away.
    ‘Good evening,’ he said.
    He was not in the least what Logen had been expecting.
A gaunt, pale, sickly-looking young man with dark rings round his eyes, long
hair plastered to his head by the drizzle and a nervous smile. He seemed more
wet than wise, and certainly didn’t look powerful beyond the dreams of men. He
looked mostly hungry, cold, and ill. He looked something like Logen felt, in
fact.
    ‘Shouldn’t you have a staff?’
    The young man looked surprised. ‘I don’t . . . that is
to say . . . er . . . I’m not a Magus.’ He trailed off and licked his lips nervously.
    ‘The spirits told me to expect a Magus, but they’re
often wrong.’
    ‘Oh . . . well, I’m an apprentice. But my Master, the
great Bayaz,’ and he bowed his head reverently, ‘is none other than the First
of the Magi, great in High Art and learned in deep wisdom. He sent me to find
you,’ he looked suddenly doubtful, ‘and bring you . . . you are Logen
Ninefingers?’
    Logen held up his left hand and looked at the pale
young man through the gap where his middle finger used to be. ‘Oh good.’ The
apprentice breathed a sigh of relief, then suddenly stopped himself. ‘Oh, that
is to say . . . er . . . sorry about the finger.’
    Logen laughed. It was the first time since he dragged
himself out of the river. It wasn’t very funny but he laughed loud. It felt
good. The young man smiled and slipped painfully from the saddle. ‘I am Malacus
Quai.’
    ‘Malacus what?’
    ‘Quai,’ he said, making for the fire.
    ‘What kind of a name is that?’
    ‘I am from the Old Empire.’
    Logen had never heard of any such place. ‘An empire,
eh?’
    ‘Well, it was, once. The mightiest nation in the
Circle of the World.’ The young man squatted down stiffly by the fire. ‘But the
glory of the past is long faded. It’s not much more than a huge battlefield
now.’ Logen nodded. He knew well enough what one of those looked like. ‘It’s
far away. In the west of the world.’ The apprentice waved his hand vaguely.
    Logen laughed again. ‘That’s east.’
    Quai smiled sadly. ‘I am a seer, though not, it seems,
a very good one. Master Bayaz sent me to find you, but the stars have not been
auspicious and I became lost in the bad weather.’ He pushed his hair out of his
eyes and spread his hands. ‘I had a packhorse, with food and supplies, and
another horse for you, but I lost them in a storm. I fear I am no outdoorsman.’
    ‘Seems not.’
    Quai took a flask from his pocket and leaned across
with it. Logen took it from him, opened it, took a swig. The hot liquor ran
down his throat, warmed him to the roots of his hair. ‘Well, Malacus Quai, you
lost your food