The Witch Hunter (The Witch Hunter #1)(66)

Schuyler raises his eyebrows. “Funny. Because it was Blackwell who hired me to bring it to him.”

Fifer and I exchange a rapid glance.

“Perhaps hired is the wrong word,” Schuyler continues. “I think his exact words were ‘bring it to me or I’ll drag you to the gallows in chains, hang you ’til you’re near gone, then slit you from breath to belly, pull out your innards and set them alight while you watch—’ ”

“Stop,” Fifer whispers, her face ashen. “Stop.”

“What does Blackwell want with this sword?” I say.

“They say this sword is the most powerful of its kind in existence,” Schuyler replies. “It can cut through anything. Stone, steel, bone—” He breaks off with a nasty grin. “They say whoever possesses it can never be defeated. Not by weapons, not by magic, not by anything.”

“The most powerful of its kind in existence?” Fifer glances at the sword. “What kind?”

Schuyler flashes her a look. “The cursed kind, of course.”

Fifer lets out a squeak.

“You can’t be cursed just by holding it,” he says. “You have to use it. That’s how the sword works. The more you use it, the more powerful you become, until you’re invincible. That’s when the curse takes hold.”

“How so?” I say.

“The sword starts to take its power back. It gets stronger, the man weaker, until he’s dependent upon it to survive. Once our knight here realized that, it was too late. Because the only way to get rid of the curse is to get rid of the sword. And the only way to do that is to lose it in battle. Only he couldn’t do it. He was too powerful.”

I’m drawn into the story despite myself.

“So how did it end up here?”

“Dying with the sword is the only other way to break the curse,” Schuyler says. “So the knight found a witch, had her entomb him here, even had her put a spell on it so that no one could free him as long as he was still alive. I suppose that was in case he changed his mind.”

I give an involuntary shudder.

“What does Blackwell want with a cursed sword?” Fifer says.

Schuyler shrugs. “I don’t think he cares about being cursed. At least not as much as he cares about being invincible.”

“You can’t let him have it,” I say.

“Interesting request, coming from a witch hunter,” Schuyler says.

“She’s right,” Fifer says. “You can’t.”

“You want me to die?” he fires back.

“Of course not!”

“What would you have me do, then?”

“Leave it! Just leave it and walk away.”

“And go where? If I don’t bring him this sword—”

“You might live,” Fifer says. “But if you bring it to him, he’ll kill you anyway. Surely you know that.”

“He gave me his word,” Schuyler says.

Fifer whirls to face me. “Elizabeth, what do you say to that? What is Blackwell’s word worth?”

I hesitate. I was loyal to Blackwell for so long that even now—even after he threw me in jail and sentenced me and turned his back on me, after he lied to me—I still hesitate to speak against him.

So I just shake my head.

Schuyler swears under his breath.

“And is that what you really want?” Fifer continues. “For Blackwell to become invincible?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” Schuyler says. “I have to do this.”

“No, you don’t!”

Schuyler marches toward us. Eyes narrowed, reaching for the sword. A thrill of fear rushes through me as I reach over, plunge my hand into the bag of salt hanging at Fifer’s waist, and fling a handful of it in Schuyler’s face.

He lets out an agonized shriek—uncomfortably reminiscent of the sound that ghoul made when I threw salt on him, too—and falls to the ground, covering his face and rolling around, his movements slow and sluggish from the salt.

Fifer looks momentarily stunned. She grabs another handful and flings it at him, then drops beside him and pulls out a fistful of something green and sweet-smelling—Is that peppermint?—shoving it down his shirt, into his boots, even down his trousers. Eventually Schuyler stops moaning and falls still.

She puts her mouth to his ear. “I’m doing this for your own good,” she whispers. Then she jumps to her feet. “We’ve got about twenty minutes before he comes to. Believe me, we want to be long gone before he does. So grab that torch and let’s go.” Clutching the sword, she dashes to the door and slips through the opening.

I retract the knife and slip it into my boot. As I pass the tomb to get the torch, I pause to look. Inside is the perfectly preserved body of a knight. True to his name, he’s completely green: green hair, green skin—even his armor is green.

Fascinating.

Fifer sticks her head back in the door. “Elizabeth!”

“Coming.” I snatch the torch off the wall, and, as I pull away, the flame lights up the stone slab enclosing the knight’s tomb, and I notice something I didn’t see before. Markings. Etchings of some sort. Some are letters, some symbols. Runic alphabet, I suppose, very ancient magic. I don’t understand them, though their meaning is clear enough: This knight was buried beneath a curse tablet.