Part 10 (1/2)

'Well then, stop your worrying.'

The blood-mage stood up and went to the Picker's cart. The cart where the spear was hidden. He stood by it, frozen.

'Don't be messing with my cart.' The Picker's voice hardly changed, but now there was a flash of steel lurking inside it. I can do things when I has to . . . One of the first things the Picker had said, years ago when they'd first come together.

Years. It really was that long. When he, Kithyr, had been little more than a dabbler, and the Picker had casually walked into his life and made him an offer he couldn't refuse. A few things you and I have to do to keep our masters from over the seas happy, and they'll be letting you into a few secrets as the times goes by. They'd lived up to that promise too, and now here he was, perhaps the strongest blood-mage since the Edict of Vishmir and the purges that had followed.

Being ordered about by a thief.

'Why do they want it?' he asked suddenly. The Picker had never actually said so, but the spear was quite obviously meant to end up in the hands of the Taiytakei.

'Why'd you think?'

'Because it has power.'

'I expect lots of things has power. I'd say it's because it commands the dragons.'

'Old stories aren't necessarily true ones.'

The Picker shrugged and chewed on his stick of straw. 'Best kind though, old stories. You have to admire them. It's like an old soldier. It might not be pretty but it's got something, something lots of other stories didn't when they fell by the wayside and got forgotten. It's got the urge to keep on, to keep going, to keep being said. Gutsy like. And there's nothing as good as a kernel of truth at the heart to keep a story alive.'

'Does your blood run with magic too?' All those years together and he'd never actually asked. I could find out now. When you came to me, you were the dangerous one. But I've learned so much more than what you showed me . . .

'Make a difference, would it?'

'Not really.'

'No reason to spoil a mystery then, is there.' The Picker didn't move. 'That's another thing a good story likes, that is. A mystery.'

Kithyr suddenly found his insouciance immensely annoying. He stepped away from the cart, though. The Picker was right about that. No need to draw any attention where it wasn't needed. Instead he moved among the roadside camp, helping with the fires, chatting idly to the grain merchant's sons and the few drivers he'd come to know. It was a mask of amiable obscurity and one he wore well.

The voices came later. At night and only at night, after all but a few watchmen had gone to sleep and the air was filled with snoring, that's when they came. Every night the spear spoke to him. The first time he'd been dreaming, but now it spoke when he was awake. To him and only to him.

Earth-mage.

Earth-spear.

Become as one.

We tasted your blood.

We will serve you.

If you free us.

Sometimes, if he closed his eyes, he saw himself in another land, or another time, or perhaps both. Armies that filled the landscape crashed together like the sea breaking against the land. Dragons fought dragons, and on their backs they carried men of glittering silver. He saw even bigger monsters, creatures the size of cities. And he saw the sorcerers of the Dark Moon, clad in their black steel and calling down the powers of night and day, of darkness and light. He saw it all, from far above, circled it, and then fell, diving towards its midst.

. . . he was the Black Sorcerer, the dark wizard carrying the Adamantine Spear and with it all the power of the earth. He strode through the armies like a colossus, flinging aside all who stood in his way. When the dragons came he raised the spear and they melted before his will. The silver magicians fell helpless before the spear as it drew their power and added their strength to its own.

And there, in the middle of it all, he found the Ice King. The two charged at one another and their shared scream of glee shattered the world.

He woke up. Always at that moment of coming together, and then the voices would start again, whispering and pleading. Free us. We will serve you . . .

The watchmen were at their posts, sitting around their fires at either end of the camp, talking idly, making jokes. Not paying much attention, because out here in the middle of the plains there simply weren't the bands of roaming thieves that lurked in other parts of the realms. Now and then bursts of laughter broke the quiet and the rhythm of snores. Every night Kithyr left the watchmen a bottle of spirits to keep them warm. Every night they drank, and with it they drank a drop of his blood. Every night they became more his. He had nothing to fear from them. Look away. That was all he needed to think and they would obey, casting their eyes into the gloom around them. The Picker was the one who troubled him. The Picker drank nothing except fresh water, taken straight from a stream or a well if he could. Sometimes, when they were in a city, he would settle for a trough or a fountain. Kithyr had even seen him bend down and drink from a puddle. He was the same with his food. Never anything where another man's hands could have touched it. And so, for all Kithyr's trying, the Picker had never drunk his blood.

But now the Picker was asleep. Kithyr got up and walked to the cart. Sometimes, when he slipped his hand into the grain until he touched the spear, the voices fell silent, as if soothed by his touch. Then he felt something else, another power, a thing for which he had no name but was as large as the sky. Something deep asleep but slowly waking. A power that terrified him with its sheer immensity.

We are yours for the taking. We will show you. Let us free.

This time, when his hand touched the spear, it reached further. This time his fingers wrapped themselves around the shaft.

Why would you let this go? Why would you give us to mere sailors? Men?

Because they have promised the power of the silver kings to me, that's why.

But that is who we are, blood-mage. Killed by the spear in the madness at the end of the world. We can give you the power we once knew if you choose it. Why would you give us away?

Why? His head swam. Why indeed.

'I wouldn't be listening to them if I were you,' said the Picker. His eyes were open now, staring at Kithyr. Apart from that he hadn't moved.

'Listening to what?' Kithyr let go of the spear. The voices hissed their disappointment.

'Them voices from the spear. Them.'

'You hear them too?'

'No, but now I knows that you does. Watch out for voices, so I was told. Voices always gets you in the end. All that whispering of power and such. Best you pay them no heed. Best you go back to sleep.'

So he can cut your throat while you dream. He knows. He wants us. He hears us. He speaks with us.

He will take us.

Leave you with nothing.

Kithyr didn't move. His fingers stretched and touched the spear again. He glanced at the watchmen, but they were still obediently paying no attention at all to anything happening in the middle of the camp. 'Who are you?'

'The Picker. That's all I am. I makes sure that all sides keeps their promises.'

Kithyr's fingers tightened on the spear again. If I was a true sorcerer, I could destroy you in a blink. That's what this spear would give me. He reached out with his mind to the men around the fires. Touched them where only he could thanks to the blood they'd drunk. Picker. He's a thief. He needs to be taught a lesson. He needs to be an example to others. He needs to feed the crows.

Yes! He felt the spear-voices and their glee. As one, the watch-men stopped what they were doing. Their mouths hung open, mid-word. They scratched their heads and looked among the wagons.

'What have you done?' asked the Picker, still not moving. 'Not something stupid, I hope.'

'Stay very still,' whispered Kithyr. 'It'll go better for you. I'm thinking I might not be taking the spear to Furymouth after all.'