The War God's Own wg-2 Read online

  "Oh, I'm sure of that," Brandark muttered. "What I'm not sure of is that it's a reason I'll like."

  * * *

  It was even colder on the docks than Vaijon had feared. He had the distinct impression his nose was about to freeze off, followed by other portions of his anatomy in order of exposure, but he looked about with interest despite his discomfort.

  He'd never been a good sailor. The mere thought of a winter voyage could tie his stomach in knots, and he'd managed to avoid visiting the docks more than twice in the entire time he'd been assigned to the Order's Belhadan chapter. Those two trips had been made in the middle of summer, unfortunately, and in addition to its importance as a shipping hub, Belhadan was home port to the largest fishing fleet in Norfressa, and his business had taken him right to Fisherman's Wharf. The stench from the midsummer fishery sheds had turned Vaijon a darker green than his surcoat, which was why he'd gone to such lengths to avoid repeating the experience. Luckily, today's business took him to a different part of the waterfront. Even better, the winter cold seemed to have frozen the stench out of the air, for which he was devoutly grateful.

  He consulted the scrap of paper Sir Charrow had handed him and nodded as he matched the numbers on it to those painted on the dockside pilings. He'd been told to look for a schooner (whatever a "schooner" was) at Berth Nine at the Produce Pier, and he shoved the note into his belt pouch as Berth Nine came into sight. He couldn't see much of the ship moored there-it appeared to be lower than the side of the pier-but it had only two masts and seemed quite small. He felt a spurt of indignation that a champion of Tomanāk should be forced to travel aboard such a lowly vessel, but he stepped on it quickly. A true knight went where honor and his duty to the God took him, and a champion's presence touched even the least prepossessing ship with the shadow of Tomanāk Himself.

  He quickened his pace, reassured by that thought, and squared his shoulders as the crowd of roughly dressed longshoremen turned to stare admiringly at him. He was accustomed to that reaction, and he inclined his head at precisely the right angle-enough to acknowledge their admiration but not enough to appear overly proud-as he headed for the gangplank.

  "Gods!" Brandark muttered as the magnificent young man drew closer. "D'you think Tomanāk would be too upset if we dropped him in the harbor for a few minutes? I'd pull him back out-promise!"

  "Will you just listen at that, now!" Bahzell replied. "Why, I'm thinking he could be teaching you a thing or two about dressing sharp, Brandark my lad."

  "Him?" Brandark snorted. "All this time together, and you still haven't learned to appreciate the elegance, the restrained style and cut, the carefully selected fabrics of my wardrobe?" His hand swept a graceful gesture at his tattered finery, and he shook his head sadly. "Anyone can sew fistfuls of jewels onto himself, you uncouth barbarian, but that doesn't mean he has a sense of fashion! Besides, I won't have to drop him in the harbor if he's not careful. If he pokes his nose an inch or two higher, he's going to trip over his own two feet, go over the edge, and drown out of pure self-admiration."

  "Ah, so that's it! I was thinking I'd heard a note of jealousy there," Bahzell observed, and grinned at his friend's expression. Brandark started to reply, then stopped as the newcomer walked to the edge of the pier and looked down at Wind Dancer with a puzzled air.

  Vaijon looked out over the boat-no, he corrected himself, the schooner-in confusion. He knew he'd come to the right berth, but there was no champion in sight, nor even any sign of his proper entourage. Seen close up, the schooner was less pedestrian-looking than he'd feared. In fact, it had a certain undeniable grace, a long, lean set of lines which looked indefinably right somehow, but its crew appeared to consist entirely of halflings. Well, halflings and two-

  Sir Vaijon of Almerhas froze. He'd never encountered a hradani in his life, for such savages were never seen among civilized folk, but he couldn't mistake the mobile, foxlike ears. Or, for that matter, the sheer size of the bigger one. The mountainous hradani would have made at least two of any man Vaijon had ever seen-he must weigh four or five hundred pounds, all of it bone and muscle-and a more evil-looking villain would have been impossible to imagine. His cloak looked to have been looted from a dead brigand, his crudely made scale mail had obviously been scrounged from the same source, and his boots and breeches were little better than rags. The hilt of a sword thrust up behind his raggedy cloak's left shoulder, and the sort of warrior's braid favored by backward human frontiersmen blew in the icy wind. The smaller hradani was just as tattered looking, but beside his companion's hulking menace he looked almost civilized.

  Ancient tales of the hradani rape of Kontovar and more recent stories of border warfare and bloodshed here in Norfressa flashed through Vaijon's mind, and he stared at the hradani as if he'd opened his closet and found it full of vipers. There was no sane reason for two members of the most feared and reviled of all the Races of Man to suddenly appear in the middle of Belhadan, but there they stood, gazing up at him, and his hand dropped instinctively to the hilt of his sword.

  He started to draw, then made himself stop while he battled his confusion. He was only a knight-probationer, but it was the duty of any knight of Tomanāk to defend the helpless against hradani and their like. He got that far without difficulty. The problem was that no one else on the pier seemed to realize they were in danger. In fact, they were gawking at him, not the hradani, and as he stood there with six inches of his sword out of its sheath, most of them began to grin and one or two actually laughed aloud.

  His ears might be half frozen, but they weren't too cold for him to feel them burn as the loutish bystanders chuckled at his expense, and he shoved his blade back home with a click, kicking himself mentally for reacting without thought. The hradani were simply standing there on the schooner's deck, with two equally travel-stained packs at their feet. They were obviously passengers, not raiders sailing into Belhadan on the quarterdeck of a Shith-Kiri corsair, and however fearsome their kind might be as fighters, a single pair was hardly enough to threaten one of the King Emperor's largest cities! No wonder no one else seemed concerned. No doubt the Guard would keep a close eye on them-Vaijon would pass the word to the authorities himself after he guided the champion to the chapter house-but the very thought of the champion reminded him that he had more important duties this morning, and he shook himself impatiently. His lungs ached, protesting the cold as he drew a deep, calming breath, and then he settled his cloak more neatly about his shoulders and stalked down the gangplank with icy dignity.

  Or as close to icy dignity as he could come. The plank was much springier than he had imagined, and he found himself doing an awkward hop-skip-and-stumble over its battens as it flexed under his boots. More guffaws rose from the idlers on the dock, and Vaijon muttered a few words Sir Charrow would not have approved of as he felt his ears burn afresh. What he wanted to do was take the flat of his blade to the buffoons who dared laugh at him, but his oath to the Order, not to mention the Code of Tomanāk , forbade any such thing. In an intellectual way, Vaijon could agree with the restriction-it wasn't as though anyone had offered him physical violence, after all-but his blood boiled and his teeth grated as he forced himself to swallow the insult of their low-born hilarity.

  He made it to the schooner's deck in one piece and managed to hide his relief as he felt relatively stable footing underfoot once more. He took another moment to settle himself and be sure he had control of his temper, then turned to the halfling he assumed was the ship's master. It was unfortunate that the halfling in question was standing right beside the two hradani, for their proximity made it difficult for Vaijon to ignore them, but he managed.

  "Excuse me for intruding," he told the presumed captain, "but I was told to meet a passenger on your vessel."

  "You were, were you?" The halfling's gruff, accented Axeman sounded harsh and uncouth beside Vaijon's polished, aristocratic enunciation, and his short ivory horns gleamed against his chestnut hair as he folded his arms and tilted his
head back to gaze up at the young knight. "And who might you be?"

  Vaijon blinked, unaccustomed to so direct and challenging a query. He started to reply with the hauteur such impertinence deserved, but he stopped himself in time. The Order of Tomanāk taught respect for even the most humble, and those of gentle blood bore a special responsibility to avoid treading upon those who didn't realize they were being insolent.

  "I am Sir Vaijon of Almerhas, son of Truehelm of Almerhas, Knight-Probationer of the Order of Tomanāk and Baron of Halla," he said, infusing all the dignity of his ancestry into his tenor voice. "And you are, sir?"

  "Nothing so special as all that," the halfling replied, then snorted. "Evark of Marfang, master of this ship," he said brusquely.

  "I am honored to make your acquaintance, Captain," Vaijon said with a gracious bow.

  "Charmed myself, I'm sure," Evark said dryly as Vaijon straightened. "Now, what were you saying brings you aboard Wind Dancer?"

  The knight drew himself to his full height once more and rested one hand regally on the hilt of his sword.

  "I've come on the business of the Order of Tomanāk ," he said. "I was sent to meet one of your passengers."

  "And which one would that be?"

  "I wasn't given his name, Captain. I was simply told that you would have a champion of the Order on board and instructed to guide him to our chapter house."

  "Oh! It's a champion of Tomanāk you're looking for, is it?" Vaijon nodded, raising his eyebrows encouragingly as the halfling finally grasped the reason for his presence. "Well, why didn't you say so?" Evark went on. "That's him there," he explained, and waved at the bigger of the two barbarians standing beside him. "The tall one," he added helpfully.

  Vaijon felt his jaw drop, and then bright spots of anger blazed on his frozen cheeks. Blue eyes flashed dangerously as the halfling mocked him, and the bystanders' howls of laughter only made it worse. His gloved hand clenched on the hilt of his sword, and he took a half step forward, opening his mouth to lash out angrily. But before he got the first word said, another voice spoke.

  "Gently, my lad," it rumbled, and Vaijon paused. It was deeper and more powerful than any voice he'd ever before heard, and amusement flickered in its depths. Amusement at him, he realized with a raw burst of fury, and spun towards its owner.

  Vaijon of Almerhas was accustomed to looking even the tallest human in the eye, but he felt the strain in the back of his neck as he glared up at the hradani. He expected to see a mocking expression, but the brown eyes that met his were almost gentle-twinkling with amusement, yes, but oddly sympathetic. Which only made it worse, of course. Bad enough to be mocked by a halfling without having some unwashed barbarian sympathize with him for being made the butt of someone else's bad joke!

  "I beg your pardon?" he got out through gritted teeth. "Were you addressing me?"

  "Aye, I do believe I was," the hradani agreed in that rustically-accented subterranean bass.

  "When I require your advice, sir, I will inform you!" Vaijon said with freezing hauteur.

  "No doubt," the hradani replied easily. "But the problem with that, I'm thinking, is that most often by the time a man's realized he's after needing advice, he's past the time when it might have been doing him some good." Vaijon's teeth ground audibly, but the hradani went on calmly.

  "Take this very moment, for example," he suggested. "There you stand, thinking as how Evark here is after making light of you, when he's done naught at all, at all, but answer your questions. It's best you be thinking over the answers before you've the doing of something you'll not be so happy about after."

  Vaijon's nostrils flared and white-hot fury pulsed in his veins. Yet much as he hated admitting it, the hradani had a point. No doubt he thought it was amusing to mock a knight of the Order, but his very mockery had reminded Vaijon of who and what he was. He had a responsibility to protect the Order's honor from public insult and ridicule, but much as he longed to punish Evark's insolent excuse for a sense of humor, thrashing someone as much smaller than he as a halfling, however badly he deserved it, was hardly the act of a true knight.

  "I shall take your advice under consideration," he told the hradani after two or three incandescent seconds, but his eyes were back on the halfling. "In the meantime, however, I would advise you to direct me to the person I'm here to meet!" he said coldly.

  The halfling only shook his head with a curious mixture of amusement, derision, and sympathy, then looked up at the hradani.

  "I've my ship to look after," he said, "and this un's one of Scale-Balancer's lot, gods help us all. You deal with it." Then he turned and stalked off, leaving a stupefied Vaijon staring at his back.

  "I- How dare- Come back here!" he spluttered, and started to charge off in pursuit. But a huge hand closed on his mailed shoulder, stopping him, and he felt himself being turned as easily as if he were a child.

  He found himself staring up at the hradani once more and reached for the hand which gripped him. That hand's wrist was as broad as his own biceps, and a strange little shiver of disbelief went through him as he realized how powerful it truly was, but his eyes flamed.

  "Gently, now!" the hradani said, and his voice was sharper than before, edged with command. "I told you to be thinking over Evark's answers, Sir Vaijon of Almerhas, and you should have done it."

  "What d'you-?" Vaijon began, and the hradani shook his head.

  "I'm thinking I've begun to see why himself wasn't after warning you, my lad," he said. "You've a way of going at things without thinking at all, at all, don't you just?" Vaijon opened his mouth again, but the hradani gave him a gentle shake.

  "Stop now, and take it slow," he advised. "I've no doubt the notion comes as a shock, but old Evark told you true, you see."

  "Told me-?" Vaijon froze, and the hradani nodded.

  "Aye," he said almost compassionately. "It's sorry I am to be telling you this, Vaijon of Almerhas, but my name is Bahzell, son of Bahnak, Lord of Clan Iron Axe of the Horse Stealer hradani and Prince of Hurgrum, and it's me you're after meeting."

  "Y-you're a-a cham-?" Vaijon couldn't force the words out of his mouth as he stared in horrified disbelief, all color draining out of his face, and the enormous hradani nodded gently.

  Chapter Two

  It couldn't be true. Vaijon knew it couldn't, yet something in the hradani's eyes, something in the timbre of his voice, whispered otherwise. But that had to be Vaijon's imagination. Tomanāk had no hradani champions. The very idea was… was… It was blasphemous, that was what it was!

  He started to stay so, then stopped and fought to think his way through the impossibility. As a knight of the Order, he was honor bound to challenge any who falsely claimed membership in it, and the thought of matching himself against the hradani didn't worry him particularly, despite the other's size. He worked out daily with the Belhadan chapter's best trainers, even in midwinter; none had ever bested him, and big as the hradani was, he had to be slow, especially with any weapon as ponderous as the two-handed sword he wore across his back. But Vaijon couldn't issue challenge without proof the other had lied, and until he had that proof, his own honor required him to treat the hradani with the same courtesy he would show an honest man.

  "Forgive me, sir," he said finally, "but since the master of my chapter house was unable to give me either the name or the description of the one I was sent to meet, I must seek some proof of identity."

  He was rather pleased by how close to normally that had come out, but the hradani's unflustered nod puzzled him. There was no defensiveness in it, and he held his empty right hand out in front of him. Vaijon felt his eyebrows rise in confusion as the other flexed his fingers, and then that earthquake voice uttered a single word.

  "Come," it said quietly, almost coaxingly, and Vaijon of Almerhas jumped straight backward in astonishment as five feet of burnished steel leapt into existence. One instant the hradani's hand was empty; the next the sword which had been on his back was in his grip, flashing with razor-edg
ed wickedness in the morning light.

  Vaijon's backwards stumble ended with him half-crouched, eyes huge while a panic no opponent had ever waked pulsed within him. But the hradani only looked at him with those same compassionate eyes and lowered his blade until its tip touched the deck before him, then turned it so Vaijon could see it clearly. The knight quivered, still lingering on the edge of that totally unexpected panic, but then he sucked in air and forced himself back under control. He was a knight of the Order of Tomanāk , and whatever else he might be, he was no coward. And so he reexerted his self-mastery and looked at the sword, then leaned abruptly forward, blue eyes wide once more as he stared at the crossed mace and sword etched deep into the blade below the quillons.

  A profound silence stretched out. Vaijon had never actually seen a Sword of Tomanāk . Such a blade was the ultimate emblem of the Order, a weapon only the mightiest of champions might bear and the symbol of the obedience every member of the Order owed to its bearer. Even among champions such blades were vanishingly rare, for they came only from the hands of Tomanāk Himself, and He bestowed them only upon those who had proven themselves worthy to stand at His own side in battle. But rare though they might be, every servant of the Order, down to the rawest squire, knew each was imbued with its own special powers, and what the hradani had just done combined with the burnished, unmarred and unmarrable perfection of the sword's blade and those perfectly formed emblems of Tomanāk to tell Vaijon exactly what he looked upon.

  For an instant, he looked whiter than the snow behind him, despite his weathered complexion, but then the color came back in a scalding flood of scarlet. It was still impossible. His emotions insisted that this hradani couldn't possibly be a champion of Tomanāk . Yet his intellect knew better… and that he'd made a colossal fool of himself into the bargain.