Free The Blade Itself by Joe Abercrombie Page B

sucked up the spirit, coughed on the smoke, shuddered at
the bitter taste. ‘You ready to leave?’
    The apprentice raised his arms in a hopeless gesture.
‘I am packed.’
     
    Malacus Quai loved to talk. He talked as they made
their way south across the moors, as the sun climbed into the grimy skies, as
they entered the woods toward evening time. His illness did nothing to stop his
chatter, but Logen didn’t mind. It was a long time since anyone had talked to
him, and it helped to take his mind off his feet. He was starving and tired,
but it was his feet that were the problem. His boots were tatters of old
leather, his toes cut and battered, his calf was still burning from the
Shanka’s teeth. Every step was an ordeal. Once they had called him the most
feared man in the North. Now he was afraid of the smallest sticks and stones in
the road. There was a joke in there somewhere. He winced as his foot hit a
pebble.
    ‘. . . so I spent seven years studying with Master
Zacharus. He is great among the Magi, the fifth of Juvens’ twelve apprentices,
a great man.’ Everything connected with the Magi seemed to be great in Quai’s
eyes. ‘He felt I was ready to come to the Great Northern Library and study with
Master Bayaz, to earn my staff. But things have not been easy for me here.
Master Bayaz is most demanding and . . .’
    The horse stopped and snorted, shied and took a
hesitant step back. Logen sniffed the air and frowned. There were men nearby,
and badly washed ones. He should have noticed it sooner but his attention had
been on his feet. Quai looked down at him. ‘What is it?’
    As if in answer a man stepped out from behind a tree
perhaps ten strides ahead, another a little further down the road. They were
scum, without a doubt. Dirty, bearded, dressed in ragged bits of mismatched fur
and leather. Not, on the whole, unlike Logen. The skinny one on the left had a
spear with a barbed head. The big one on the right had a heavy sword speckled
with rust, and an old dented helmet with a spike on top. They moved forward,
grinning. There was a sound behind and Logen looked over his shoulder, his
heart sinking. A third man, with a big boil on his face, was making his way
cautiously down the road toward them, a heavy wood axe in his hands.
    Quai leaned down from his saddle, eyes wide with fear.
‘Are they bandits?’
    ‘You’re the fucking seer,’ hissed Logen through
gritted teeth.
    They stopped a stride or two in front. The one with
the helmet seemed to be in charge. ‘Nice horse,’ he growled. ‘Would you lend it
to us?’ The one with the spear grinned as he took hold of the bridle.
    Things had taken a turn for the worse alright. A
moment ago that had hardly seemed possible, but fate had found a way. Logen
doubted that Quai would be much use in a fight. That left him alone against
three or more, and with only a knife. If he did nothing him and Malacus would
end up robbed, and more than likely killed. You have to be realistic about
these things.
    He looked the three bandits over again. They didn’t
expect a fight, not from two unarmed men—the spear was sideways on, the sword
pointed at the ground. He didn’t know about the axe, so he’d have to trust to
luck with that one. It’s a sorry fact that the man who strikes first usually
strikes last, so Logen turned to the one with the helmet and spat the spirit in
his face.
    It ignited in the air and pounced on him hungrily. His
head burst into spitting flames, the sword clattered to the ground. He clawed
desperately at his face and his arms caught fire as well. He reeled screaming
away.
    Quai’s horse startled at the flames and reared up,
snorting. The skinny man stumbled back with a gasp and Logen leaped at him,
grabbed the shaft of the spear with one hand and butted him in the face. His
nose crunched against Logen’s forehead and he staggered away with blood
streaming down his chin. Logen jerked him back with the spear, swung his right
arm round in a wide arc