ground, but then leapt suddenly to his feet. "Gods in Hell!" he cried. "The ground is full of knives!"
Greene grinned. He reached the island moments after Cope, and squatted beside him. The sword was unadorned, as modest as it had looked from afar, with a plain, functional hilt and guard, and a clean, sharp blade. Yet there is beauty in simplicity. This weapon had been forged – or grown – for combat rather than show. The edge and tip of the blade looked as keen as any he had ever seen. It would be easy to slide such steel into a man.
Cope grabbed the weapon's hilt and gave it a tug. The sword did not move.
"How do we get it out?" asked Greene.
"Hmm." Gingerly, the thaumaturge brushed earth away from the base of the pommel. "There appears to be a root system," he said.
"Can we dig round it?"
Cope continued to expose more steel from the surrounding ground. The pommel was not as simple as it had first appeared: it was connected to a complex arrangement of metal shoots beneath the earth.
"The roots have no function," Cope observed, squatting back on his haunches. "Yet our hound knows that trees have roots, and so this sword has been given roots in its dream. We only need to return with the sword, so we must find a way to separate it from the earth without causing damage." His brow creased with concern. "I should have considered this problem more carefully before we arrived."
"Let me try." The prospector gave the weapon's grip a mighty kick with the heel of his boot. A hideous metal peal rang out across the swamp. The steel bent below the pommel, but the sword, although now skewed, remained attached to the ground.
Cope gasped. "You have just assaulted Ayen's Lord of Warfare a second time!" he cried. "Is no amount of brutish vandalism against my master beyond you?"
"Worked in the Forest of Eyes," said Greene, who had always been of the opinion that if something valuable was stuck in the ground, a crack with a pickaxe was the best way of getting the damn thing out.
“Indeed,” said Cope. "I am sure the demon Basilis has not forgotten the way you ripped out his eyes to batter your opponent in the face. Just as I am convinced that the kick you have now administered to his teeth will reverberate in his memory for some time to come."
Now Greene understood why Cope's pup had glared at him with such profound malevolence. Notwithstanding the fact that he'd helped the demon, the thing was angry at him for hurting it. Basilis's impending release from captivity had just acquired a new flavour.
Ravencrag called across from the shore, "Getting into trouble again, Sal? You remember that bottle of wasps I talked about? That might have been optimistic." The phantasmacist had dropped his trousers and stood there in his underpants, his scrawny, white legs on display, while he tried to inspect the injury to his rear.
"How's your arse, Laccus?"
"Covered," the little man replied. "Unlike yours."
Greene sighed with resignation. Here he was helping to free a demon which, upon its release, would undoubtedly find eternities of pain for him to endure – merely because he'd plucked out a few eyes and kicked it in the teeth. It probably didn't help that he had no way of paying the ludicrous summoning fee in the first place, or that the demon's own servant was equally furious with him. As things now stood, Cope might end up quarrelling with his immortal master for the right to do wicked things to the prospector's spilled innards.
And all this to try to save his family from the curse of an angel who would certainly slay him if he failed.
1012, Greene decided, was not turning out to be a good year for him.
"Sod it," he said. Time was running out.
He kicked the sword again, then again and again, pummelling his boot against the lower edge of the grip. The steel roots snapped somewhere below the pommel and the sword fell to the ground.
"Alright," he said, breathing hard. "Now I've kicked your master's tooth out, will you ask him nicely to
Greene grinned. He reached the island moments after Cope, and squatted beside him. The sword was unadorned, as modest as it had looked from afar, with a plain, functional hilt and guard, and a clean, sharp blade. Yet there is beauty in simplicity. This weapon had been forged – or grown – for combat rather than show. The edge and tip of the blade looked as keen as any he had ever seen. It would be easy to slide such steel into a man.
Cope grabbed the weapon's hilt and gave it a tug. The sword did not move.
"How do we get it out?" asked Greene.
"Hmm." Gingerly, the thaumaturge brushed earth away from the base of the pommel. "There appears to be a root system," he said.
"Can we dig round it?"
Cope continued to expose more steel from the surrounding ground. The pommel was not as simple as it had first appeared: it was connected to a complex arrangement of metal shoots beneath the earth.
"The roots have no function," Cope observed, squatting back on his haunches. "Yet our hound knows that trees have roots, and so this sword has been given roots in its dream. We only need to return with the sword, so we must find a way to separate it from the earth without causing damage." His brow creased with concern. "I should have considered this problem more carefully before we arrived."
"Let me try." The prospector gave the weapon's grip a mighty kick with the heel of his boot. A hideous metal peal rang out across the swamp. The steel bent below the pommel, but the sword, although now skewed, remained attached to the ground.
Cope gasped. "You have just assaulted Ayen's Lord of Warfare a second time!" he cried. "Is no amount of brutish vandalism against my master beyond you?"
"Worked in the Forest of Eyes," said Greene, who had always been of the opinion that if something valuable was stuck in the ground, a crack with a pickaxe was the best way of getting the damn thing out.
“Indeed,” said Cope. "I am sure the demon Basilis has not forgotten the way you ripped out his eyes to batter your opponent in the face. Just as I am convinced that the kick you have now administered to his teeth will reverberate in his memory for some time to come."
Now Greene understood why Cope's pup had glared at him with such profound malevolence. Notwithstanding the fact that he'd helped the demon, the thing was angry at him for hurting it. Basilis's impending release from captivity had just acquired a new flavour.
Ravencrag called across from the shore, "Getting into trouble again, Sal? You remember that bottle of wasps I talked about? That might have been optimistic." The phantasmacist had dropped his trousers and stood there in his underpants, his scrawny, white legs on display, while he tried to inspect the injury to his rear.
"How's your arse, Laccus?"
"Covered," the little man replied. "Unlike yours."
Greene sighed with resignation. Here he was helping to free a demon which, upon its release, would undoubtedly find eternities of pain for him to endure – merely because he'd plucked out a few eyes and kicked it in the teeth. It probably didn't help that he had no way of paying the ludicrous summoning fee in the first place, or that the demon's own servant was equally furious with him. As things now stood, Cope might end up quarrelling with his immortal master for the right to do wicked things to the prospector's spilled innards.
And all this to try to save his family from the curse of an angel who would certainly slay him if he failed.
1012, Greene decided, was not turning out to be a good year for him.
"Sod it," he said. Time was running out.
He kicked the sword again, then again and again, pummelling his boot against the lower edge of the grip. The steel roots snapped somewhere below the pommel and the sword fell to the ground.
"Alright," he said, breathing hard. "Now I've kicked your master's tooth out, will you ask him nicely to
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