The Webbing Blade

A CURSE IS CAST

MA’REYGAR listened in hard for any sound.

But there was only the stirring of the wind in the distant trees, the trees back on the plains. He would be back there soon, he would be safe.

And he was determined that he would bring his wife back with him. It wasn’t right that his daughter should grow without a mother. And that sense of justice drove him on.

He felt the stone ledge of the king’s chamber beneath his fingers. That delightful chill ran through him, the same chill he got whenever he touched his wife, whenever their skin touched.

He had to keep her weak, of course, weak enough that they could still touch. But that channel of ice magic in her blood, that was enough to keep that thrill alive for him. And soon they’d be reunited.

Herimyre would be foolish to crop up now, to try and stop him.

It might mean death for both of them.

And, in the half-light, he made out the king, sleeping in his four-poster bed, those flimsy, transparent curtains collected round him, giving him privacy.

Ma’reygar stalked closer, feeling the Webbing Blade in its sheath, at his side. He would leave it till the right time. His hands were still shaking from his killing the guard on the ramparts. He should’ve held off till now, had more patience. But the thrill, the temptation of slicing the man’s throat with the Webbing Blade, had just proved too strong.

He stood over the king’s bed now. He could hear the gentle breathing of the man, see his form in the half-light, and he breathed in the light musk of the place, that thick . . . kingly scent.

This man who wasn’t fit to be a king at all.

And then, from the corner of the chamber, he heard the voice he’d feared all along. The light timbre that made his nerves tremble, sent a shudder right up his spine.

He swung round to see there, standing in the corner of the room, was Herimyre himself.

Unmistakable even in the darkness.

Those broad shoulders, the almost impossibly square chin, and the broad sword in the sheath down at his side.

Tysron.

That was the name of the sword. Some mage, in the Sable Mountains, had forged it for Herimyre. It resisted magic.

Merely beat it away as a monk thrashes a petulant child in the classroom.

“I thought you’d come, mage,” Herimyresaid, out of the darkness.

Ma’reygar stood firm, afraid to say anything. His fingertips just lingering over the Webbing Blade, over its handle, already feeling that crispy chill, and feeling it fighting back against his fire magic, even through the bandage he’d bundled round the handle so he might be able to wield it a little while.

Ma’reygar’s throat felt dry, and his mouth as if it’d been bathed in some pestilent stench, but he managed to force himself into thinking, into telling himself why he was here.

He was here for his wife.

And he would save her.

He swore it.

“You know why I’m here,” Ma’reygar said.

Herimyre stepped out of the corner of the king’s quarters. He paused after a few steps, and reached for the handle of his sword.

For the handle of Tysron.

But he stopped short of drawing it from its sheath.

Ma’reygar felt Herimyre’s eyes on his, felt their weight on his skin. And he couldn’t help but think of Tysron, that sword of his.