A Thief in the Night by David Chandler

annoyed.
    Malden knew better than to push the point. He took an eating knife from the table and speared a slice of ham. He glanced over at Coruth. She was downing a goblet of wine so fast it was spilling down the front of her tunic. If the witch had read anything into the conversation between the thief and her daughter, she seemed oblivious now.
    â€œHe’s a barbarian,” Coruth said when she had emptied her cup. She reached for the flagon to refill it. “If you’re wondering.”
    â€œYou didn’t even see him,” Malden said.
    Coruth grabbed a roasted leg of chicken from a plate. “Don’t need to.”
    Malden frowned. “You sense his nature, on some subtle current in the ether? Is that it? Have you plumbed his heart with your witchery?”
    â€œDon’t need that either. Only a barbarian laughs like that. Like his death could come for him at any minute and he’s looking forward to it.” The witch put down the bone she’d been gnawing and sat back in her chair. “They’re different, out there on the eastern steppes. Unsophisticated, some might say. They live in a more violent world, that’s for sure. They have no gods but death, and they fight like animals.” She stared into the middle distance and smiled. “Make love like animals, too.”
    â€œMother,” Cythera said, spreading butter on a piece of brown bread, “if you know that from personal experience, I’d prefer not to hear the story.”
    Heavy footsteps came clomping up the stairs, and the two swordsmen bustled into the room. The barbarian had a fresh bandage around his forearm, but the bleeding wound on his chest was left exposed. He had one massive arm around Croy’s shoulders.
    â€œEveryone,” Croy said, “I’d like you to meet Mörget.”
    Malden rose from his chair and wiped his hands on his tunic. He glanced toward the window, wondering how fast he could get out of the room if he had to. It wasn’t that he felt he was in any particular danger. Looking to the nearest escape route was simply his natural reaction when being introduced to a very large man covered in weapons.
    Croy introduced his new friend to the ladies, and then to Malden, who stuck out one hand to grasp. The barbarian stared at the hand for a moment, then looked away.
    â€œI beg your pardon, sir, if I have offended,” Malden said.
    â€œLittle man, forgive me. In my land we touch only those we love, or those we plan on killing.”
    â€œLike . . . Croy,” Malden said, nodding at the arm that held the knight. “Do the two of you know each other from some previous battle?”
    â€œWe never met before today,” Croy assured the thief.
    â€œThen—”
    â€œMörget is an Ancient Blade.”
    â€œOh!” Cythera said, and Malden nodded, because that explained everything.
    Croy bore the sword Ghostcutter, and it defined his life. Before it had been given to him his father had carried it, and before his father a whole succession of knights wielded the sword. Each of them had groomed his own replacement, so that the sword would always have a noble bearer. Croy had spent his entire youth training just to be worthy to hold it. To listen to him talk of his sword, the knight was far less important and less valuable than the piece of iron he wore at his belt, so when people asked him what kind of man he was, he claimed he was an Ancient Blade—speaking for the sword, which had no voice of its own.
    The wielders of those swords were sworn to various oaths, one of which was that they would aid each other in noble quests. Another was that if they ever broke their vows, the other six were bound to hunt them down and slay them, so that the blade they had dishonored could be recovered and passed on to a more worthy owner.
    Which meant that Croy and Mörget would either be fast friends from now on, or Croy would have to kill Mörget without