Read Online Sharp Ends: Stories from the World of The First Law by Joe Abercrombie - Free Book Online Page A

Craw took for a yes.
    He stabbed at each of ’em with one chewed-to-bugger fingernail. ‘And all on your best behaviour, you hear? Quiet as a spring breeze. No tripping over the pots this time, eh, Brack?’
    ‘I’ll mind my boots, Chief.’
    ‘Good enough.’
    ‘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.
    His eyes went wide as two cook-pots. ‘What, me?’
    ‘Stay here and mind the gear.’ Raubin gave a long sigh of relief and Craw felt his lip curl. He didn’t blame the man for being a hell of a coward, most men were. Craw was one himself. But he blamed him for letting it show. ‘Don’t get too comfortable, though, eh? If the rest of us come to grief these Fox fuckers’ll track you down before our blood’s dry and more’n likely cut your fruits off.’
    Raubin’s sigh rattled to a quick stop.
    ‘Cut your head off,’ whispered Never, eyes all scary-wide.
    ‘Pull your guts out and cook ’em,’ growled Jolly Yon.
    ‘Skin your face off and wear it as a mask,’ rumbled Brack.
    ‘Use your cock for a spoon,’ said Wonderful.
    They all thought about that for a moment.
    ‘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.’
    Quick sharp, and with no grumbling now the work was at their feet, Craw’s crew got ready for action, each one smooth and practised with their gear as a weaver with his loom, weapons neat as their clothes were ragged, bright and clean as their faces were dirty. Belts, straps and bootlaces hissed tight, metal scraped, rattled and rang, and all the while Scorry’s song floated out soft and high.
    Craw’s hands moved by themselves through the old routines, mind wandering across the years to other times he’d done it, other places, other faces around him, a lot of ’em gone back to the mud long ago. A few he’d buried with his own hands. He hoped none of these folk died today, and became nothing but dirt and worn-out memories. He checked his shield, grip bound in leather all tight and sturdy, straps firm. He checked his knife, his backup knife, and his backup backup knife, all tight in their sheaths. You can never have too many knives, someone once told him, and it was solid advice, provided you were careful how you stowed ’em and didn’t fall over and get your own blade in your fruits.
    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