Free The Blade Itself by Joe Abercrombie

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 but you kept hold of what really mattered. It takes an effort to make me smile these days. You’re right welcome at my fire.”
    “Thank you.” The