“Gods,” said Stehlen. “Bedeckt’s cat turd face is spreading like an epidemic. You’re actually thinking.” She shook her head, tutting. “Swordsmen don’t do that. You should know better.” She pushed the weapon across the table, closer to the Swordsman. He leaned back in his chair to maintain distance. “Wichtig is gone,” she said. “Go on, take your sword.”
“I have seen death,” he said. “His name is Wichtig Lügner. He was so drunk he kept falling over. He was white from blood loss. White.” The Swordsman gestured at the blood-stained floor. “Half that is his. Nobody—” The Swordsman finished his kartoffel in a long pull and scowled at the mug, eyes distant. “You spend your entire life practising. You fight duel after duel, working your way through the local Swordsmen. You’re good. Better than everyone. You leave home and travel the world, fighting and killing and growing a reputation and you know people have heard of you. One day you realize it isn’t a dream. For the first time you know you are one of the best. You know it.” The Swordsman slammed his mug to the table, shattering the clay and slashing his hand open. He stared at the blood running from his clutched fist. “The Greatest Swordsman in the World,” he said, watching the blood pool on the tabletop. “One day it’s not some impossible goal, not some distant and unachievable dream. People talk about you. People say it might be you.” He laughed, opening his hand to expose the deep gash. “You can feel it, you know.” He darted a quick glance at Stehlen. “You feel their belief. It’s a drug. You begin to crave it. To need it. You chase this stupid dream so that you’ll be great, so you’ll be admired and remembered. So people will look up to you. So your father will say he’s sticking proud of what you’ve done with your life. You don’t realize you’re a slave to the damned dream until it’s too late.”
“You like to listen to yourself talk,” said Stehlen.
The Swordsman, staring at his hand, didn’t seem to hear. “I watched him kill. I can’t imagine what he’s like sober.”
“Swordsmen are worse than fishwives for gossip,” said Lebendig dropping into an empty chair, startling both Stehlen and the Swordsman. Her hair hung long and loose, a waterfall of strawberry blond. Though she still looked exhausted, her eyes were bright. “Wichtig is a pretty thing, nothing more.”
Gods she moves quietly. That feline grace was part of what Stehlen loved about the big woman.
“Pretty?” said the Swordsman. “Gods, no. Someone cut him bad. He killed all those Swordsmen with fresh stitches still hanging in his face.”
“You see scars on me?” asked Lebendig, leaning close to the Swordsman.
Stehlen knew that, though Lebendig’s face was free of scars, her body told a different story.
He sneered at her, lips curling in disdain. “You’re no contender. You could never be the Greatest Swordsman in the World.”
Lebendig’s eyes went cold and a chill crept down Stehlen’s spine. Never forget what she is.
“Oh?” said Lebendig. “And why is that?”
“You’re a woman.”
Lebendig pushed the sword on the table toward the Swordsman. “Care to pick this up one last time?”
How long has Lebendig been watching me?
“I don’t kill women,” said the Swordsman, sitting back and crossing his arms. “Not even big ugly ones.”
Lebendig caught Stehlen’s arm by the wrist before she managed to put her knife in the arse’s throat. How do I keep forgetting how fast she is?
“No,” said Lebendig. Glancing at the Swordsman she said, “Outside. Now.”
Stehlen stole a glance at her lover, measuring. Can she fight in this condition? Should I stop her—keep her safe—or help her?
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Wichtig is it. He’s the best. He’s the Greatest Swordsman in the World. The title is taken.”
Maybe Lebendig will feel better after killing this idiot. Certainly taking her rage out on some unsuspecting fool always improved Stehlen’s mood. “We’re going to kill him,” she said to the Swordsman. “And then the title will once again be up for grabs.” She winked at Lebendig. My love, I will give you what you need. And if Stehlen needed to step in and help kill this idiot, Lebendig would never even notice. “After all you told me,” she added, “you’ll give up your quest when you’re so close? So you saw someone better. So what? He’ll be dead in a day. Then what?”
The man made no move to reach for his blade. If anything, he seemed more frightened by the weapon than before. His bottom lip trembled. “No,” he said.
“Step outside with my friend,” said Stehlen, “or I’ll kill you right here.”
He shook his head and tears ran down his cheeks. “I don’t want to. I’ve seen death. It’s ugly, it’s violent. I don’t want to die. I want—I want to see my mom.”
Stehlen felt filthy, soiled by the man’s weakness. I’m going to kill him.
“Leave him,” said Lebendig, somehow knowing her thoughts. “He’s done.” Her eyes, moments ago iced with death, were sad. She looked to be near tears herself. “He’s brittle now. Like kitchen steel.” She sighed, a sound of disappointment, regret, and relief.
“I will never understand you,” said Stehlen.
Lebendig gave her a wan smile. “I know.”
“Killing some idiot Swordsman would make you feel better.”
“True.”
“So?”