The Blade Itself

He floundered out of bed and picked his way to where he remembered the door being, bent over with his arms feeling about in front of him. Too light to sleep, but too dark to actually see anything. “Fucking civilisation,” he muttered to himself as he fumbled with the latch on the door, sliding his bare feet cautiously into the big circular room at the centre of their chambers.

It was cool in here, very cool. The cold air felt good on his bare skin after the damp heat of his bedroom. Why wasn’t he sleeping in here, instead of that oven next door? He squinted at the shadowy walls, face all screwed up with the painful fuzz of sleep, trying to work out which blurry door led to the pissing-shelf. Knowing his luck he’d probably blunder into Bayaz’ room and accidentally piss on the First of the Magi while he was asleep. That would be just the thing to sweeten the wizard’s temper.

He took a step forward. There was a clunk and a rattle as his leg barged into the corner of the table. He cursed, grabbing at his bruised shin—then he remembered the jar. He lunged and caught it by the rim just before it fell. His eyes were adjusting to the half-light now, and he could just make out the flowers painted on the cold, shiny surface. He moved to put it back on the table, but then it occurred to him. Why go any further when he had a perfectly good pot right there? He glanced furtively round the room, swinging the jar into position… then froze.

He was not alone.

A tall, slender figure, vague in the half-light. He could just make out long hair, blowing gently in the breeze from the open window. He strained against the darkness, but he couldn’t see the face.

“Logen…” A woman’s voice, soft and low. He didn’t like the sound of it one bit. It was cold in the room, very cold. He took a firm grip on the jar.

“Who are you?” he croaked, voice suddenly loud in the dead stillness. Was he dreaming? He shook his head, squeezed the jar in his hand. It all felt real. Horribly real.

“Logen…” The woman moved silently towards him. Soft light from the window caught the side of her face. A white cheek, a shadowy eye-socket, the corner of a mouth, then sunk in darkness again. There was something familiar… Logen’s mind fumbled for it as he backed away, eyes fixed on her outline, keeping the table between them.

“What do you want?” He had a cold feeling in his chest, a bad feeling. He knew he should be shouting for help, raising the others, but somehow he had to know who it was. Had to know. The air was freezing, Logen could almost see his breath smoking before his face. His wife was dead, he knew that, dead and cold and gone back to the mud, long ago and far away. He’d seen the village, burned to ashes, full of corpses. His wife was dead… and yet…

“Thelfi?” he whispered.

“Logen…” Her voice! Her voice! His mouth dropped open. She reached out for him, through the light from the window. Pale hand, pale fingers, long, white nails. The room was icy, icy cold. “Logen!”

“You’re dead!” He raised the jar, ready to smash it down on her head. The hand reached out, fingers spreading wide.

Suddenly, the room was bright as day. Brighter. Brilliant, searing bright. The murky outlines of the doors, the furniture, were transformed into hard white edges, black shadows. Logen squeezed his eyes shut, shielded them with his arm, dropped back gasping against the wall. There was a deafening crash like a landslide, a tearing and splintering like a great tree falling, a stink of burning wood. Logen opened one eye a crack, peered out from between his fingers.

The chamber was strangely altered. Dark, once more, but less dark than before. Light filtered in through a great ragged hole in the wall where the window used to be. Two of the chairs had gone, a third teetered on three legs, broken edges glowing faintly, smouldering like sticks that had been a long time in a fire. The table, standing right beside him just a moment before, was sheared in half on the other side of the room. Part of the ceiling had been torn away from the rafters and the floor was littered with chunks of stone and plaster, broken lengths of wood and fragments of glass. Of the strange woman there was no sign.

Bayaz picked his way unsteadily through the wreckage towards the gaping hole in the wall, nightshirt flapping around his thick calves, and peered out into the night. “It’s gone.”

“It?” Logen stared at the steaming hole. “She knew my name…”

The wizard stumbled over to the last remaining intact chair and flung himself into it like a man exhausted. “An Eater, perhaps. Sent by Khalul.”

“A what?” asked Logen, baffled. “Sent by who?”

Bayaz wiped sweat from his face. “You wanted not to know.”

“That’s true.” Logen couldn’t deny it. He rubbed at his chin, staring out of the ragged patch of night sky, wondering whether now might be a good time to change his mind. But by then it was too late. There was a frantic hammering at the door.