Oath of Swords-ARC Read online

  The Trelith attack had been a repeat of the abortive Saramfal attempt with twice the men. Fortunately, the sheer number of attackers had been harder to hide, and Hartan spotted them before Kilthan was fully into their trap. The bodyguards' commander had also had more time to plan, and his prearranged order had sent Bahzell falling back beside Kilthan to deal with any who might break through to him. But the assassins hadn't pressed the attack. Indeed, they'd broken off the instant Hartan's men formed line about Kilthan and Bahzell, yet any hope they'd given up for good had been blunted at Malgas. The attack there had been nothing less than a fire ship. Brandark had lost both eyebrows in that one, for the river barge, packed with combustibles and roaring with flame, had actually lodged against Kilthan's ship for over two minutes before the crew could boom it off, and they might never have pushed it clear without the added weight and strength of the two hradani.

  Now, as the convoy headed down the last few leagues to Riverside, Bahzell felt unhappy over his plan to leave it when they reached the port. Kilthan was well beyond any likely raider attack, but leaving him now seemed poor repayment for his kindness if the dog brothers meant to have him.

  "Kormak for your thoughts," a tenor voice asked.

  "I'm doubting they're worth as much as all that," he rumbled.

  "Call me a big spender."

  Bahzell gave a wry smile, but then it faded, and he shrugged.

  "I've just been casting my mind over my—our—plans. We're coming up fast on Riverside, and I'm not so easy in my mind over leaving Kilthan as I'd thought to be."

  "The dog brothers?"

  "Aye." Bahzell flattened his ears. "It's not a thing I can understand, Brandark, this notion of taking money to kill a man you've never met and who's done naught to you or yours. And as for any scum that would worship Sharnā into the bargain—!" The Horse Stealer spat over the side, and Brandark sat up and cradled his balalaika across his lap.

  "Sometimes I think you're too much a barbarian for your own good," he said. "If you'd grown up in Navahk, you'd understand exactly how someone could kill for a fistful of gold—or copper, for that matter. But you really don't, do you?" He shook his head at Bahzell's blank look and sighed. "Don't let it worry you, Bahzell. You're probably better off not understanding . . . as long as you remember other folk do. But as for worshiping Sharnā—"

  The Bloody Sword broke off, gazing out over the sunlit river for several long minutes, then shrugged.

  "Truth to tell, I doubt many of them really 'worship' old Demon Breath. From all I've heard, a man would have to be more than just sick-minded to dabble in such as that. Oh, the dog brothers pay Sharnā lip service, at least—I suppose even assassins want a patron of some sort, and the kind of treachery and cunning Sharnā relishes is their stock in trade—and there's no doubt they maintain links to his church, but I doubt most of them would ever come any nearer a demon-raising than they could help!"

  "Aye?" Bahzell raised his sword to peer down its edge, and fresh-honed steel glittered below his eye as he glanced up at his friend. "That's as may be, my lad, but if they've a mind to call such as Sharnā lord and master, then I've a mind to cut their gizzards out on sight."

  "I doubt you'd get much argument from anyone there—except the dog brothers, of course. But I take it the attacks on Kilthan are why you're uncomfortable about leaving his service?"

  Bahzell nodded again, then put his sword away. Steel clicked as he sheathed it and tucked the whetstone into his belt pouch.

  "I understand," Brandark said after a moment, "but you can only kill them when they come at him. Hartan's other fellows can do that almost as well as you, and, much as it pains me to say it, he and Rianthus between them are at least half as smart as I am, so not even my brilliance is irreplaceable to Kilthan's security."

  "Ah, the modesty of the man!" Bahzell sighed, and Brandark grinned. "Still and all," the Horse Stealer went on more seriously, "you're after making sense. It's just that these are good lads, Brandark, and skipping out when they might be counting on us . . . frets me. I'll be missing them, come what may, and if aught should happen to Kilthan after we've gone—" He twitched his ears unhappily, and his eyes were dark once more.

  "I know." Brandark rubbed an index finger gently down a balalaika string and frowned. "Has he said anything more about our plans?"

  "Naught but what you've heard as well as me. I'm thinking he'll be sorry to see our backs, not but what he'd cut his throat sooner than admit it! But all he's said is that we'd best be looking twice before we jump. We've a place here now; if we strike out on our own, we'll lose that."

  "True enough, but that'd be just as true wherever we part company with him, and if you're serious about not going further west—?"

  "After that maw worm Tarlnasa?" Bahzell bared square, strong teeth. "Even allowing as how that bag of piss and wind would know Dark Gods from Light, no god as would choose something like that as messenger is anyone I'd want to be meeting! Oh, no, Brandark, my lad! It's happy I am no one's said aught of wizards, but I'll be taking my chances with Harnak again before I stick my neck into any god's noose!"

  "Why am I not surprised?" Brandark murmured. Bahzell glared at him, but the Bloody Sword only twitched his ears gently in thought. "Well," he said finally, "in that case, Riverside's the place for us. The further west we go, the less likely we are to find anything going east, especially with winter coming on. So if you're still determined to outrun divine interference and Kilthan is willing to let us go, I suppose we have to."

  "Aye," Bahzell growled, and squinted up into the cloudless blue sky with a look that boded ill for whatever god might be stalking him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  "So you're sure about this, are you?"

  Kilthan's sharp topaz eyes considered the two hradani as they stood at dockside. The city of Riverside was grimy and unkempt, and it had a name as a rough place. The Kingdom of Morvan was one of the Border Kingdoms—the small states nestled along the Empire of the Axe's frontier—but it was more lawless than most. And less concerned with keeping the Axemen happy, for the Forest of Sharmi covered its southern flank. No one went into the Sharmi willingly, not even armies of the expansionist Empire of the Spear, which left the Morvanians with a smaller sense of dependence upon Axeman protection.

  "Aye, you are," the dwarf sighed, and shook his head. "I'll be honest, you lads have worked out better than I'd expected, and Riverside is no place for a pair of hradani all on their own. I'll keep you both on—as sergeants over the winter, and with your own platoons come spring."

  "We appreciate the offer." Brandark still acted as their spokesman more often than not, but Bahzell nodded in agreement. "Truly we do. But under the circumstances—" He shrugged, and Kilthan frowned up at Bahzell.

  "You're remembering that idiot in Derm, aren't you?" His cocked head demanded answer, and the Horse Stealer nodded again. "Well, I don't know as I blame you, but I doubt Norfressa's big enough to outrun the gods—assuming a lunatic in a fancy bed gown would know a message from them if it bit him on the arse!"

  "That's as may be, but I'm minded to try. And, truth to tell, I'd sooner whatever it is not splash on you and yours if I can't outrun it, Kilthan."

  "Hmmmmm. You know, there might just be something in that," Kilthan agreed with a slow smile, then shook himself. "All right. You've more than pulled your weight, so here's your pay—and I've decided to absorb your bonds with the Guild." He tossed over a purse that clinked satisfyingly when Brandark caught it, and grinned at their expressions. "Don't let it get around. Hirahim knows I don't need a reputation as a curst soft touch!"

  "Somehow I doubt that's going to happen," Brandark assured him.

  "No more it should," Kilthan agreed, drawing an unsealed parchment letter from his tunic and handing it to Brandark as well. "You'd best take this, too. Gods know you louts will have trouble enough without me to vouch for you, but this may help." Brandark cocked his ears—his eyebrows were growing back, but remained too wispy for suitable ex
pressiveness—and Kilthan snorted. "It's a letter of introduction. Won't do a damned bit of good if the guard decides to clap you up, and don't expect it to help much with local tradesmen, but it should carry weight with anyone from the Guild who's looking for reliable men. I perjured my immortal soul in it, but if they believe half the lies I've told, it should get you a job with someone reputable who's headed east—assuming there is anyone headed east this time of year!"

  "We're thanking you, Kilthan," Bahzell said softly. He reached down to clasp forearms with the dwarf. "It's a good friend you've been to us, and I'll not forget. I've written my father, as well. If any of your factors are ever after finding their way to Hurgrum, you'll find the markets open to you."

  "Think I didn't know that, you overgrown lump of rock?" Kilthan rose on his toes to punch the Horse Stealer in the chest. "Why else d'you think I'm sending you off with that letter? Keep your eye on the main chance and invest carefully, boy, and don't you ever forget it!"

  "Aye, that would be it, of course," Bahzell agreed with a smile, and Kilthan waved both hands at them.

  "All right, all right! I've things to do, and I can't be standing around all day, so be gone with you now!"

  He marched briskly away, and the two hradani smiled at each other behind him. They gathered their gear and started away from dockside, only to pause as Rianthus and Hartan appeared in front of them. The human led two horses, one an excellent medium warhorse and the other a sturdy pack animal, and Hartan shook his head as he glared up at the hradani.

  "Tomânak ! All this time with us, and they still haven't learned to think ahead," he snorted to Rianthus.

  "Aye, well, no one ever said they were smart," Rianthus agreed, grinning at Brandark.

  "And to what—other than a desire to perfect your rudeness—do we owe this visit?" Brandark inquired politely.

  "Well, it occurred to some of the lads that you two had to sell your horses back in Derm," Rianthus said casually, "so the lot of us went in to buy you a pair of replacements. Not as good as you could, ah, liberate from a bunch of Navahkan Bloody Swords, maybe, but passable, I think."

  "Passable, is it?" Bahzell ran an appreciative eye over the horses. "Aye, you might be calling them that!"

  "Here—take 'em!" Rianthus stuck out the reins, then caught Bahzell's forearm as he took them. "And watch yourselves, you two! Gods know you're not the brightest pair I've ever seen, but we're fond of you."

  "Speak for yourself, high-pockets," Hartan grunted, but he, too, clasped arms with them both. Then the two captains nodded brusquely and turned back to their business, and Bahzell and Brandark walked slowly into the streets of Riverside.

  They soon found Kilthan's warnings well founded. They were no longer a wealthy merchant's guards, and Riverside had its share and more of prejudice. Like most of the Border Kingdoms, Morvan was a land of mixed races, but no hradani were numbered among them, and if their people's fearsome reputation meant no one cared to push a quarrel to the point of drawn steel, neither were they welcome. There was a mysterious lack of room in the better inns, and they ended up lodging above a miserable tavern on the wrong side of the city.

  Their quarters were wretched enough, but the bad side of Riverside was worse than most, and the tavern's location brought them face-to-face with half the city's would-be bravos with predictable results. Word soon got around that it was wiser to leave them in peace, however, and Bahzell hardly had to break more than an arm or two to bring it about. It took a bit more effort on Brandark's part—his balalaika and dandified air made him less elementally threatening—but after the night four burly longshoremen took flight through a second-story window, their fellows decided to leave him alone, too.

  None of that was calculated to endear them to the City Guard, and the unpleasant aura of official displeasure added itself to their other problems. All in all, Riverside was not a place either of them cared for, yet finding a way to leave was far from simple.

  Their pay from Kilthan, coupled with what remained of Bahzell's original purse, was enough to carry them for a time, especially at the prices their cheerless lodgings could command, but it would never last clear through the winter. Nor would it take them very far along the road. In the long run, if they wanted to eat they needed work, and there was little of that in Riverside for hradani, even with Kilthan's letter. Not, at least, on the right side of the law, and the local underworld quickly gave up on recruiting either of them.

  Had an opportunity offered, they would gladly have used that same letter to hire on with another caravan, but autumn had caught up with them once more. Norfressa looked forward to winter, and no one willingly took to the road in winter, which lent added point to the necessity of finding some means of earning their way through the icy months to come. But as days turned into a week, then into two weeks, and then into three, and the nights grew steadily colder, it began to seem they had no choice. If there was nothing for them here, they must move on soon and trust to fortune. Besides, Bahzell's dreams were back. His memories of them were as fragmented and confusing as ever, but even more disturbing, and the Horse Stealer's feet itched to be leaving.

  * * *

  The moonless night was windy and cold. Thin clouds, just thick enough to hide the stars without cutting the chill, pressed down on Riverside like a hand, filling the frosty shadows with a darker, more solid blackness. There were no streetlights on this side of town; only the occasional privately maintained flambeaux outside some gambling den or brothel broke the dark, and Bahzell muttered balefully to himself as he moved down the mean little street. He'd found a few days' work, of a sort, as a bouncer, but that was at an end now. He didn't know who the Krahana-cursed idiot was or why he'd tried to stick a knife in Bahzell's back, and no one ever would know now. The Guard seldom ventured into the Broken Bucket, and no one had seemed inclined to summon them when his attacker landed in the sawdust with a broken spine, but the bar's halfling owner had decided he could manage without Bahzell's services after all. So here he was, picking his way back home to Brandark with no more than a few miserable silvers in his pouch, and—

  He paused in one of the many shadows, ears cocking as a sound came from in front of him, and his jaw clenched.

  His ears went slowly flat in the blackness, and a vast sense of ill-use suffused him as he heard snarling male voices and a lighter, more breathless female one that tried to hide its fear. They came from an alley ahead of him, and he raised his head to glare at the low clouds.

  "Why me, damn it?" he demanded. "Why in the name of all of Fiendark's Furies is it always being me?!"

  The clouds returned no answer, and he snarled at their silence. The voices grew louder, and then there was a sudden scream of pain—a man's, not a woman's—and the male voices were abruptly uglier and far more vicious. The Horse Stealer lowered his eyes from the clouds and swore vilely. This wasn't even Navahk, and he'd spent long enough among the other Races of Man now to know rape was a far more common crime among "civilized" people than any hradani clan would tolerate. If they didn't want to stop it, it was certainly none of his business—and the woman was probably no more than one of the whores who worked these wretched streets, anyway!

  He wrestled with himself, and as he did, he heard the sudden patter of light, quick feet fleeing while heavier feet thundered in pursuit. Another scream split the night—this one female—and Bahzell Bahnakson spat one last, despairing oath at his own invincible stupidity, and charged.

  Someone looked up with a startled cry as the huge hradani appeared out of the night. Dim bands of light spilled through a shuttered window high in one wall, patching the alley's shadows with bleary illumination, and Bahzell swore again as he realized there were at least a dozen of them. Probably more, and three of them had hold of a kicking, scratching, hissing wildcat below the window. Cloth tore, a soprano voice spat a curse, and hoarse laughter answered it even as he turned the corner, and he wasted no time on words.

  The closest man had time for one, strangled cry as an
enormous hand reached for him. Then he thudded headfirst against the alley wall and oozed down it while his companions whirled in astonishment. Knives glinted, but Bahzell wore his scale mail, and he was in no mind to make this any more of a killing matter than he could help. Gods knew the authorities were more likely to hang a hradani than thank him for saving some whore's problematical virtue, he told himself bitterly, and smashed a fist into the nearest face.

  His target flew backward, taking two of its fellows down with it, and someone else dashed at him. Perhaps he meant only to dart past the hradani and flee, or perhaps he hadn't realized how large Bahzell was when he started, but his feet skidded as he suddenly found himself all alone and tried too late to change his mind. Bahzell caught his right wrist and twisted, a knife rang as it fell to the paving, and the man screamed—first in pain, then in raw panic—as he was plucked off the ground by his wrist. But a scale mail-armored elbow drove up into his jaw from below, bone crunched audibly, the scream was cut off as if by an axe, and Bahzell dropped him and reached for another one.

  A knife slashed the back of his hand, but the cut was shallow, and he bellowed as his other fist came down on top of the knife-wielder's head like a maul. Another body slithered to the paving, and a bass-voiced curse turned into a falsetto scream on the far side of the crowd. Bahzell had no time to wonder why, for a knife grated on his mail from behind, then withdrew and came up from below. The stiletto-thin blade was narrow enough to find a gap between scales, but it hung for just a second, and he reached back for a handful of cloth and heaved. His assailant cried out as he flew forward, but then he hit the alley on the back of his neck and flopped with the total inertness of a dead man, and Bahzell stepped over the body as another knife thrust at him.