Sharp Ends (First Law World #7)

by Joe Abercrombie

Round wattle huts and three long halls dumped in the muck, ends of the curving wooden uprights on the biggest badly carved like dragons’ heads, or wolves’ heads, or something that was meant to make men scared but only made Craw nostalgic for decent carpentry.

Craw had always been a bit worried by men who prayed to gods, let alone swords. But those were the times, he guessed. In bloody days, swords were worth more than gods. They certainly had ’em outnumbered.

There’s no style of contempt like the stuff one kind of savage has for another, Craw guessed.

Let’s not kill anyone we don’t have to, eh? They might be nice enough folks under different circumstances.’ Never sent up a dubious eyebrow. ‘You reckon?’ Craw didn’t, particularly, but he’d no desire to weight his conscience down any further.

The shadow of Whirrun’s hood crept up and down his face as he slowly nodded. ‘Every day should be a new lesson.’ ‘Good advice,’ said Craw.

‘We got a backup plan?’ asked Wonderful. ‘In case the impossible happens and things don’t work out quite according to the scheme?’ ‘The usual. Grab the thing if we can, then run like fuck. You,’ and Craw gave Raubin a look.

‘Right, then,’ said Craw. ‘Nice and careful, and let’s get in that hall without no one noticing and find us that thing. Above all …’ And he swept the lot of ’em with his sternest look, a half-circle of dirt-smeared, scar-pocked, bright-eyed, beard-fuzzed faces. His crew. His family. ‘Nobody die, eh? Weapons.’

Everyone had their work to be about. Except Whirrun. He just bowed his head as he lifted his sword gently from the tree-trunk, holding it under the crosspiece by its stained leather scabbard, sheathed blade longer’n one of his own long legs. Then he pushed his hood back, scrubbed his dirty fingernails through his flattened hair and stood watching the others, head on one side. ‘That the only blade you carry?’ asked Craw as he stowed his own sword at his hip, hoping to draw the tall man in, start to build some trust with him. Tight crew like this was, a bit of trust might save your life. Might save everyone’s. Whirrun’s eyes swivelled to him. ‘This is the Father of Swords, and men have a hundred names for it. Dawn Razor. Grave-Maker. Blood Harvest. Highest and Lowest. Scac-ang-Gaioc in the valley tongue, which means the Splitting of the World, the Battle that was fought at the start of time and will be fought again at its end.’ For a moment he had Craw wondering if he’d list the whole bloody hundred but thankfully he stopped there, frowning at the hilt, wound with dull grey wire. ‘This is my reward and my punishment both. This is the only blade I need.’ ‘Bit long for eating with, no?’ asked Wonderful, strutting up from the other side. Whirrun bared his teeth at her. ‘That’s what these are for.’ ‘Don’t you ever sharpen it?’ asked Craw. ‘It sharpens me.’ ‘Right. Right y’are.’ He hoped Whirrun was as good with that great big blade as he was supposed to be, ’cause he surely brou...

‘Back.’ Whirrun stood tall in front of them, holding out his sword at long arm’s length, hilt up, like it was some magic charm to ward off evil. ‘Back, and you needn’t die today.’ The one in mail spat, then snarled at him in broken Northern. ‘Show us your iron, thief!’ ‘Then I will. Look upon the Father of Swords, and look your last.’ And Whirrun drew it from the sheath. Men might’ve had a hundred names for it–Dawn Razor, Grave-Maker, Blood Harvest, Highest and Lowest, Scac-ang-Gaioc in the valley tongue which means the Splitting of the World, and so on, and so on–but Craw had to admit it was a disappointing length of metal. There was no flame, no golden light, no distant trumpets or mirrored steel. Just the gentle scrape as long blade came free of stained leather, the flat grey of damp slate, no shine or ornament about it except for the gleam of something engraved down near the plain, dull crosspiece.

He’d never been a hero, that was true, but he’d never felt fear like this. Not even at Ineward when he’d seen the Bloody-Nine coming for him, snarling madman’s face all dashed with other men’s blood. He stood helpless.

As her cries faded behind him, he tried to tell himself that this was not just the easy thing, but the right thing. There was nothing he could have done for her. She would not have lived. The Gurkish were too close. He could not outrun them carrying her. He had to warn the others, it was his duty. He could not save her. He could only save himself. Better one of them die than both, surely? God would understand that, wouldn’t he? God was made of understanding.

Times like these reveal a man for what he truly is. For a while Temple had convinced himself he was a righteous man, but it is easy to be virtuous before your virtue is put to the test. Like a camel turd baked in the sun, beneath the pious crust he was the same stinking, self-serving coward he had always been.

Conscience is that piece of Himself that God puts into everyone, Kahdia would have said. A splinter of the di...

‘What do we do?’ croaked Temple. ‘We care for the wounded. We give comfort to the weak. We bury the dead. We pray.’

‘Set down those weapons!’ called Kahdia, striding over to them. ‘This is a temple!’ ‘Do you think the Gurkish will respect our holy ground?’ one of them screeched, a madness of fear in his eyes. ‘Do you think they’ll put aside their weapons?’ Kahdia was calm as still water. ‘God will judge them for their crimes. He will judge us for ours. Set down your weapons.’

‘You are their leader?’ asked the foremost of the Eaters, raising one brow. His dark face was young, and smooth, and beautiful, but his eyes were old. ‘I am Kahdia, Haddish of this temple.’ ‘A priest, then. A man of the book. Dagoska has been the birthplace of many holy men. Of revered philosophers, admired theologists. Men who heard the voice of God. Are you one such, Haddish Kahdia?’ Temple did not know how, but Kahdia showed no fear. He spoke as he might to one of his congregation. Even this devil born of hell, this eater of the flesh of men, he treated as if he was no lesser or greater than himself. ‘I am but a man. I struggle to be righteous.’ ‘Believe it or not, so do we all.’ The Eater frowned down at his hand, and made a fist of it, and let the fingers slowly open again as if allowing sand to drain from his palm. ‘And here is where the road to righteousness has led me. Do you know who I am?’ There was no mocking triumph in his perfect face. Only a sadness. ‘You are Mamun,’ said Haddish Kahdia. ‘The fruit of the desert. Thrice Blessed and Thrice Cursed.’ ‘Yes. Though with every year the curses weigh heavier, and the blessings seem more dust.’ ‘You have only yourself to blame,’ said Kahdia, calmly. ‘You broke God’s law and ate the flesh of men.’ ‘And of women, and of children, and of everything that breathes.’ Mamun frowned over towards the acolyte’s ruined corpse.

Mamun fell to his knees before Kahdia and pressed one hand to his heart. ‘All heaven rejoices in the finding of one righteous man. Wash him. Give him food and water. Convey him with honour to the Prophet’s table.’ ‘God be with you,’ murmured Kahdia over his shoulder, the smile still on his face. ‘God be with you all.’ And he walked from the temple, an Eater on either side, their heads respectfully bowed as his was held high.

Mamun paused for a moment in the broken doorway. ‘The rest of you are free. Free from us, at least. From yourselves, there is no escape.’

Finally the girl beside Temple leaned close and asked in a broken whisper, ‘What do we do?’ Temple swallowed. ‘We care for the wounded. We give comfort to the weak. We bury the dead. We pray.’ God, it sounded hollow. But what else was there?

‘I’m bloody furious!’ ‘I believe you.’ ‘I mean it!’ ‘If you have to tell someone you are furious, and then, furthermore, that you mean it, your fury has failed to achieve its desired effect.’

‘Where is that happy-go-lucky rascal I fell in love with back in Westport, always facing her indignities with a laugh, a caper and a twinkle in her eye?’ And her wriggling fingers crept towards Shev’s stomach. Shev held up a knife. ‘Tickle me and I will fucking stab you.’

‘That is quite a sword,’ said Javre. ‘It is the Father of Swords, and men have a hundred names for it. Dawn Razor. Grave-Maker. Blood Harvest. Highest and Lowest. Scac-ang-Gaioc in the valley tongue which means the Splitting of the World, the Battle that was fought at the start of time and will be fought again at its end. Some say it is God’s sword, fallen from the heavens.’ ‘Huh.’ Javre held up the roughly sword-shaped bundle of rags she carried with her. ‘My sword was forged from a fallen star.’ ‘It looks like a sword-shaped bundle of rags.’ Javre narrowed her eyes. ‘I have to keep it wrapped up.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Lest its brilliance blind you.’ ‘Ooooooooh,’ said Whirrun. ‘The funny thing about that is, now I really want to see it. Would I get a good look before I was blinded, or—’

So Shev ended up with horse and rider on her conscience. But the sad fact was, only the winners got to regret what they did in a fight, and right now Shev had other worries. Namely, a man with the shittiest teeth she ever saw and a hell of an intimidating mace. Why was he grinning? God, if she had those teeth, you’d have needed a crowbar to get her lips apart. ‘Come here,’ he snarled at her. ‘I’d rather not,’ Shev hissed back.

‘But … won’t Orso be getting rid of his soldiers, once he’s won?’ Mazarine split a lined smile. ‘Orso didn’t get where he is by throwing his sword in the river. No, he’ll keep us close to hand, don’t worry about that.’ Sculia gave a grunt of agreement. ‘He who prepares for peace prepares for defeat, Verturio said.’

Takes a lifetime of hard work to make a man. Only takes a few moments to end one.

Tinder was no hero. He’d been to war, and he’d seen no heroes there, either.

It was like old Threetrees always said–a sword’s a shitty thing to give a man. Shitty for him, and shitty for everyone around him.

Surprise is like virginity. You only get the one chance at using it, and that normally turns out a crushing disappointment.

First thing a fighter needs to know is when to stop fighting.

Be generous with your own people, she had always said, or others will be.

‘Some men will break a thing just because they can,’ he had whispered. ‘But war must be a leader’s last resort. Fight a war, you’ve lost already.’

‘Peace,’ he said, ‘is when the feuds are all settled, and the blood debts are paid, and everyone is content with how things are. More or less content, anyway. Peace is when … when no one’s fighting any more.’

‘There are rules.’ ‘Rules are for those who follow,’ said Calder. ‘Rules must be for all, and for those who lead most of all. Without rules, every man stands alone, owning only what he can tear from the world with one hand and grip with the other. Chaos.’

They like great warriors in the North, and great warriors rarely make great leaders. Men without fear are men without imagination. Men who use their heads for smashing through things rather than thinking. They celebrate spiteful, prideful, wrathful men here, and pick the most childish of the crowd for leaders.’

Ninefingers is blood-drunk. Murder-proud. Every day he is less your friend, less to be trusted, less a man at all and more an animal. Every day he is less Logen and more the Bloody-Nine.’

What if you can stitch a peace together? Ninefingers is not a sword you can hang over the fireplace and tell fond tales of after supper. He is the Bloody-Nine. If you stop finding fights for him, do you think he’ll stop fighting? No. He will find his own, and with whoever’s nearest. That’s what he is. Sooner or later he will find a fight with you.’

‘You never looked for blood.’ He had to laugh at that, though there was little joy in it. ‘I did. I demanded it. Not this much, I never thought it could be this much, but that’s the trouble with blood. Wounds are so easy to open, so difficult to close. And I opened them eagerly. I needed a man to fight for me. I needed a man who’d stop at nothing. I needed a monster.’ ‘And you found one.’ ‘No,’ he whispered, shrugging off her hand. ‘I made one.’

Bethod might have been Chieftain of Carleon and Uffrith both, winner of two dozen battles, acknowledged by all the greatest war leader since Skarling Hoodless. But Logen Ninefingers had gathered an aura of fear about him the past few years. An aura of death. Like the one Shama Heartless used to have, but worse, and with every duel won and every man killed, it grew worse yet. Within reach of his hand, the Bloody-Nine was master.

You look worried.’ ‘I’m worried because half the North wants me dead.’ Logen grinned. ‘All the North wants me dead. Don’t see me frowning, do you? Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers, say he looks on the sunny side o’ the case.’

‘Wisdom’s wisdom, ain’t it, no matter the source? I mean, if a man’s a fucker or a fighter then I’m more of a fighter. Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers, say he’s a fighter, but a fuck just soothes all those—’

Bethod felt again, as he did ten times a day, how weak a thing was power. How flimsy an illusion. A lie that everyone, for some unknown reason, agreed to treat as truth. And that blade in the table could, in an instant, be the ending of it, and the ending of Bethod, too, and all he had worked for. All he wanted to pass on to his sons.

‘You can’t kill the whole world, Logen.’ Ninefingers grinned as he reached for another cup. ‘Folk are always telling me who I can’t kill. But strong men, weak men, big names, little names, they all die once you cut ’em enough. Shama Heartless, you remember him? Everyone told me not to fight him.’ ‘I told you not to fight him.’ ‘Only ’cause you were scared I’d lose. But when I fought him, and when I looked set to win … did you ask me to stop?’ Bethod swallowed, mouth dry. He remembered the day well enough. The snow on the trees, and the smoke of breath as the crowd roared, and the clashing of steel, and both his fists clenched painfully tight as he willed Ninefingers on. Willed him on desperately, every hope hanging on him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No. And once I spilled his guts with his own sword … did you ask me to stop?’ ‘No,’ said Bethod. He remembered the steam from them, remembered the smell of them, remembered the gurgling moan Shama Heartless made as he died, the great roar of triumph that had burst from his own throat. ‘I cheered you on.’ ‘Yes. You called for no peace then, if I remember right. You felt …’ Ninefingers’s eyes were fever-bright, his hands clutching at the air as he searched for the word. ‘You felt … the joy of it, didn’t you! Better’n love. Better’n fucking. Better’n anything. Don’t deny it!’ Bethod swallowed. ‘Yes.’ He could still feel the joy of it. ‘You showed me the way.’ And Ninefingers raised his forefinger and touched it gently to Bethod’s chest. So g...

‘The wise leader hopes he won’t need his sword. But he keeps it sharp even so.’

Rattleneck shook his head. ‘Never expected a good man like you to stand for the likes of this.’ Craw only shrugged. ‘There’s always good men on both sides of a good fight.’ Bethod was starting to like him more and more. A reassuring presence. A straight edge in a crooked time. If there’d ever been an opposite of the Bloody-Nine, there he stood. ‘I don’t see too many good men here,’ snapped Rattleneck.

‘I want peace, Rattleneck. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.’ That was a lie, he knew, he’d sought more battles than any man alive, but a good lie’s better than a bad truth, his mother always used to tell him.

‘Peace?’ snorted Blacktoe, one of Rattleneck’s Named Men and a fierce one at that. ‘Did you give peace to them five villages you burned up the valley?’ Bethod met his bright eye, calm and even. He was a rock. ‘We’ve had a war, and in a war folk do things they regret. Folk on both sides. I want no more regrets. So yes, Blacktoe, I want peace, whatever you believe. That’s all I want.’

‘But if they fight me, I’ll crush them. Like I did Threetrees, and Beyr, and all the rest.’ ‘What about the Bloody-Nine?’ asked Rattleneck. ‘You’ll be making a farmer of that animal, will you?’ Bethod gave away no hint of his doubts in that direction. ‘Maybe I will. My man. My business.’ ‘He’ll just do what you tell him, will he?’ sneered Blacktoe. ‘This is bigger than one man,’ said Bethod, holding Rattleneck’s eye. ‘This is bigger than you, or me, or your son, or the Bloody-Nine. This is something we owe our people. Talk to the other clans. Call off your dogs. Tell them the land I’ve taken in battle belongs to me and my sons and their sons. What you still hold is yours. Yours and your sons’. I don’t want it.’ He stood and held out his hand, making sure it was neither palm up nor palm down, but perfectly level. Perfectly fair. A hand that took no liberties and gave no favours. A hand that could be trusted. ‘Take my hand, Rattleneck. Let’s end this.’ Rattleneck’s shoulders slumped. He looked a tired man as he slowly rose. An old man. A man with no fight left in him. ‘All I want is my son,’ he croaked, and he reached out and took Bethod’s hand, and by the dead his grip felt fine. ‘Give me my son, you can have a thousand years of peace, far as I care.’

Swords are well enough, but the only true victories are won with words.