Oath of Swords

Chapter Eighteen

A south wind blew misty rain into Bahzell’s eyes as the gray walls of Angcar rose before him. It was two hours till gate-closing, but lanterns already glimmered from the battlements, and he blinked away water, looked back over his shoulder, and bit his lip. All of them, including those who’d slept through Chesmirsa’s visit, had felt invigorated and renewed when they left the cave. But they’d no sooner set out once more than the gray, persistent rain had returned, and flooded valleys and mud-treacherous slopes had taken toll of their mounts and slowed them badly. The rain looked like blowing itself out at last, but Tothas was hunched in the saddle, his face pinched and gray, and his harsh, rasping cough came all too often. Short of funds or no, they had to get him under a roof, Bahzell thought grimly, and increased his pace toward Carchon’s capital.

They’d fallen into the habit of letting Tothas act as their spokesman in the towns they passed, for he was less threatening than a hradani, but he was folded forward over his saddle pommel in a fresh, wracking spasm when they finally reached the gates. Bahzell stood beside his horse, one hand on the beast’s neck, hiding his anxiety as best he could while he watched the armsman cough, and Brandark trotted ahead to state their business.

The guards, already surly over pulling gate duty on such a miserable day, looked less than pleased to see a hradani, but Bahzell had little worry to spare them. The rain was far worse on Tothas than the dry cold had been. Finding the cave had been greater fortune than they had any right to expect, and what would happen to the Spearman if they met the same weather in deep wilderness frightened the Horse Stealer.

The thought touched him with strangely bitter frustration, and he stroked the neck of Tothas’ horse again while he grappled with it. He had a notion finding that cave had been something more than a stroke of simple luck, and there was a certain seductiveness to the idea of being able to call upon a god for aid. Only, if a man got into the habit of counting on some poxy god to save his neck, what did he do the day the god was busy elsewhere or got bored and decided to do something else? Besides, there was something bribe-like about the way that cave had popped up. It was like a bait, a bit of cheese enticing him into the trap.

He snorted in the rain. The dreams had stopped, as promised, but he wasn’t certain that was an improvement. He’d always believed knowing the truth was best, that it meant a man didn’t have to wonder or torment himself with hopes, but he’d learned better. Bad enough to suspect a god was after him; having it confirmed was much, much worse. This business about destinies, and tasks, and “pain beyond your dreams”-!

He watched Brandark speaking with the gate guards and shook his head stubbornly. Pain didn’t frighten him. He relished it no more than the next man, but any hradani knew pain was part of life. Yet he’d meant what he’d said. What he did, he would do because he chose to do it, not because someone or something commanded him to, and he still saw no reason any man-especially a hradani-should go about trusting gods. He couldn’t deny Chesmirsa’s impact upon him, how much he’d . . . well, liked her. But the goddess of music and bards damned well ought to be likable, charming, and all those other things! And all that talk of him and Brandark being “more” than she’d hoped-! Best be keeping your hand on your purse when you hear such from someone who’s wanting something from you, my lad, he told himself sourly.

He pulled himself from his thoughts and glanced at Zarantha, and her momentarily unguarded eyes echoed his own fears for Tothas. She felt the hradani’s gaze and looked back at him, and a spark of anger for what she was doing to her armsman burned within him, but her expression’s sick self-loathing silenced any outburst, and he looked away once more as Brandark trotted back.

The Bloody Sword was as soaked as any of them, his finery bedraggled and mud-spattered, but meeting his goddess seemed to have honed his elemental insouciance, and there was still something jaunty about the way he drew rein. “I don’t think they were glad to see a hradani, but they’ll let us in. The sergeant was even kind enough to direct me to an inn with reasonable rates-remind me to mention his name to be sure he gets his rake-off.”

“I’ll be doing that, if it’s after being decent. And if we can get Tothas into a warm bed.”

“I’m-I’m all-” Tothas broke off in another spasm of coughing, and Bahzell grunted.

“Oh, save your strength, man!” he snapped. “We’re all knowing you’ve guts enough for three men-now show you’ve the wit to go with them!”

Tothas coughed yet again, then shook himself weakly and nodded. The Horse Stealer clapped him on the shoulder and looked back to Brandark. “All right, my lad. You’re the one has the name and address, so-” He made a shooing gesture, and Brandark turned his horse with a damp grin and led the way.

The Laughing God was on the poor side of town, and its weathered walls looked none too splendid. Bahzell suspected Hirahim Lightfoot would have been less than pleased to discover he was the inn’s patron, yet it turned out to be much better than first appearances suggested.

Brandark went off to examine the stables while Bahzell accompanied Zarantha and Rekah inside, and the Horse Stealer’s eyes flitted about the taproom as they awaited their host. The miserable weather had swelled its custom, but the place was clean enough, and its patrons seemed unwontedly well behaved. Rough clothing and general shabbiness proclaimed their lack of affluence, yet there was no rowdiness, and no one gave the two overworked barmaids trouble. Which might have something to do with the stocky, powerfully built human who stood with both elbows on the bar and watched the crowd. He was two feet shorter than Bahzell, with an eagle’s-beak nose in the face of someone it would be wiser not to cross, and his eyes considered the hradani warily, then flipped to where Tothas leaned on Zarantha’s shoulder. His hard gaze softened as it rested on the armsman, then tracked back to Bahzell, and he nodded to the hradani before he returned his attention to the crowd.

One patron looked up and paled, then rose quickly, paid his shot, and departed hastily, but no one else seemed worried by Bahzell’s sudden arrival. Either that, or they had a great deal of faith in the man at the bar, and Bahzell was inclined to agree with them. That was a fighting man over there, and an unlikely character to play bouncer in a place such as this, he thought-until he saw the owner. The landlord had lost a leg at the knee somewhere, but that nose could only belong to the bouncer’s brother.

The landlord stopped short as he saw the hradani towering in his taproom, but a glance at Bahzell’s companions seemed to reassure him. His shoulders relaxed, and he wiped his hands on the towel draped over his shoulder and stumped forward on his peg leg.

“What can I do for you?” he asked in rough Spearman.

“We’re hoping you’ve room for us,” Bahzell rumbled back.

“That depends on how much room you need. We’re not the largest inn in Angcar, and I’ve let most of the private rooms already.”

“As to that, it’s two rooms we’re needing-one for the ladies, and one for myself and my two friends.” The landlord raised an eyebrow, and Bahzell twitched his ears. “We’ve one more man. He’s seeing to our animals.”

“I see.” The landlord thought for a moment, then nodded. “We can manage that. I’ve two adjoining rooms left on the second floor, but they’re not the cheapest ones, mind! They’ll run you a silver kormak a night each, but I’ll throw in stable space and fodder for your animals at no extra charge.”

Bahzell winced, but he felt Tothas sagging despite his most gallant efforts and glanced at Zarantha. She nodded almost imperceptibly, and he looked back down at the landlord.

“Done. And if we can be getting a hot meal for our friend-?” He flicked an ear sideways at Tothas, and the landlord nodded.

“We can manage that, too, and maybe a little better.” He shouted over his shoulder, and a youngster with that same beaky nose appeared like magic. “See these people to seven and eight and tell Matha they need hot food. And see there’s a warming pan for the bed linen in both rooms!”

The youngster dashed off, and the landlord turned back to Bahzell.

“There’s washrooms at the back: one for men and one for women. All the hot water you need for a copper each-and a bargain at the price for someone your size, I think!” He chuckled, and Bahzell gave him a weary grin. “If you’re inclined to get your friend into a tub to soak, my people will have his bed warmed and waiting by the time he comes out to dry.”

“I’m thanking you.” Sincerity softened Bahzell’s voice, but the landlord only shrugged and stumped back off, and the hradani took Tothas’ weight from Zarantha’s shoulder.

“I’m thinking-” he began, then broke off as the door flew open. Brandark’s arms were heaped with enough baggage to weigh down even a hradani, and the women hurried over to relieve him of sufficient for him to see over the rest.

“I’m thinking,” Bahzell resumed, “that now Brandark’s here, he can be seeing you to our rooms while I get Tothas neck-deep in hot water.”

“By all means,” Zarantha said briskly. She opened one of the bags she’d taken from Brandark and withdrew a small bottle and a horn spoon. “And give him two spoonfuls of this-it’ll ease the coughing.”

Bahzell stuffed the medication into his belt pouch with a nod and turned away to half lead and half carry Tothas to the washrooms.

Hirahim, Bahzell thought a few hours later, might not be as irked as he’d first thought to find this inn named after him. Its rooms were expensive for its neighborhood, but the food was excellent, and the staff had seen to their needs with rare dispatch. Tothas had stayed awake long enough to consume an enormous bowl of thick, hot soup before they tucked him between the warmed sheets of his bed, and his breathing had been far easier as he dozed off.

Bahzell and Brandark, immeasurably refreshed by their own hot baths, had left Zarantha and Rekah watching over him and repaired, at Zarantha’s insistence, to the taproom after supper.

“You two have done your share and more,” she’d half scolded when Bahzell questioned the wisdom of wasting their scant funds on drink. “We can spend a few coppers on you. So go! Get out of here! Just don’t get into any brawls and break anything we’ll have to pay for!”

The hradani had departed with alacrity, and they’d soon discovered that The Laughing God’s cellars matched its kitchen. The local wines were too thick and sweet, but they couldn’t really afford wine anyway, whatever Zarantha might say, and the ale was excellent.

Now they sat before the hearth, listening to the pop of burning wood and the sizzling spit as an occasional raindrop came down the flue, and nursed two of The Laughing God’s biggest tankards. The other patrons had made room for them with a bit more haste than dignity, but they’d calmed down since, and Bahzell stretched his boots towards the fire while he savored his ale . . . and the surprised faces about him. Brandark’s finery had astounded everyone, and some of those who’d prudently withdrawn from his vicinity had been lured back when he uncased his balalaika and began strumming.

It hadn’t taken long for someone a little braver than the others to ask for a song, and the Bloody Sword had obliged with a smile, though he’d asked-with uncommon tact, Bahzell thought-for someone else to provide the voice. By now he was in a huddle with two locals, fingering silent chords while one of them played something softly on a penny whistle. His head nodded as he followed the melody, and Bahzell suspected the trio would soon be shouting for someone to sing along with their joint efforts.

The bouncer had kept an eye on them at first. Not hostilely, simply with a trace of wariness, but he, too, had relaxed when Brandark began to play. Taken all in all, it was the warmest reception two hradani were likely to find anywhere outside their native lands.

It was being a good night for The Laughing God, too-due, perhaps, to the attraction of two “tame” hradani, Bahzell thought sardonically. Few had left, and enough newcomers had filtered in to fill the taproom. The landlord had assigned two more servants to help the harried barmaids and stood behind the bar in person, eyes smiling as he watched the briskness of his business. More people wandered in by twos or threes, finding room to sit where they could, and Bahzell raised his own tankard for a refill.

One of the barmaids swung past on her way back to the bar and thunked it down on her already crowded tray, and he looked back at Brandark. The Bloody Sword was nodding vigorously now, one of the locals was beckoning to a deep-voiced fellow who’d already favored them with two songs, and-

“Watch yourself, hradani! ”

The shout cracked across the taproom, and surprise jerked Bahzell’s head around. He caught movement from the corner of his eye even as he turned, and pure instinct sent him lunging to his feet and away from it.

The same shout had stopped the man who’d walked up behind the Horse Stealer. But only for a second; even as Bahzell moved, the stranger raised a clenched fist to his lips and blew.

Something hummed past Bahzell’s ear on a pffffft! of expelled breath. It spanged off a polished copper pot above the hearth, and the hradani snarled. He was vaguely aware of other movement-of Brandark catapulting from his chair, the bouncer reaching back over the bar towards his brother, a wave of confusion and consternation-but his eyes were on the man who’d tried to kill him. The stranger’s clenched fist opened, throwing the small, hollow tube it had held into the fire, and his other hand went up under his cloak.

A shortsword gleamed as he drew it, and Bahzell snatched out his dagger, but a wave of bodies erupted from the crowd before he could move. At least ten of them, foaming up from the tables and benches to join a concerted rush, and all of them were armed.

Bahzell cursed and stepped back. His foot hooked under the trestle bench he’d been seated upon, and his lead attacker ducked frantically as its heavy wooden seat exploded upward. He managed to evade it, but three others went down, tangling their fellows, and Bahzell’s ears were flat to his skull as he went for the leader.

He didn’t know who these people were, but each of them carried a shortsword-the longest weapon a man could expect to conceal under a tunic or smock-in one hand and a knife in the other, and they knew what to do with them. Neither hradani had expected trouble, and their armor and swords had been left in their room, but Bahzell’s dagger was as long as most human shortswords . . . and he, too, knew what he was doing.

His would-be killer came at him in a strange, circling stance Bahzell had never seen before, sword advanced and knife held back at his hip, and the hradani’s empty left hand spread wide. He had no time for subtlety against so many enemies, and he took a chance and lunged.

The sword darted out as he’d expected, engaging his dagger, and the knife drove forward for his belly, but his left hand struck like a serpent. Fingers of steel clamped the man’s wrist. They yanked him close, a tree-like knee rammed up between his legs, and Bahzell’s dagger slipped free of his sword as he convulsed in agony. The blade twisted in, driving up under his arm, and blood sprayed from his mouth as he went down with a gurgling scream.

Steel clashed to Bahzell’s left as he kicked the dying man aside. Brandark had reacted almost as quickly as his friend, tossing his balalaika to one of his fellow musicians with one hand while the other went to his own dagger. The local caught the instrument in sheer reflex, then yelled in panic and scrambled for safety as the killers stormed forward.

Customers scattered like quail, and someone shrieked and folded forward as Brandark opened his belly. The horrible sound died with chilling suddenness as the Bloody Sword drove his dagger into the nape of his victim’s neck like an ice pick, but three more attackers vaulted over the trio Bahzell’s bench had felled, and the Horse Stealer sprang back to get his back to the hearth.

Brandark fell in beside him, as if summoned by telepathy, and a third would-be killer fell to writhe and scream in the sawdust as Bahzell ducked and hooked a vicious upward thrust into his groin. A sword hissed at the Horse Stealer’s face, and he was just too slow to dodge. It opened his cheek from eye to chin, but the man behind it paid with his life. He went down, momentarily entangling the man beside him, and Bahzell roared as he caught the encumbered man by the throat and drove his dagger up under his sternum.

A wild, fierce war cry split the air beyond the attackers, and steel flashed in the lamplight as the bouncer brought down the broadsword his brother had tossed him from under the bar. It caught a man between neck and shoulder, and the dead man went down shrieking, but Bahzell had no time to see more than that. The innocent bystanders had disappeared through windows and doors or under tables; the taproom was clear now, and he’d been wrong about the numbers. At least a dozen men were still trying to kill him, and the world dissolved into a boil of confusion as they very nearly succeeded.

Steel clashed, someone’s blood soaked his right arm to the elbow, he heard Brandark gasp at his side, the bouncer’s shrill war cries echoed in his ears, and even through that howling bedlam he heard the sharp, musical snap of a bowstring. A slash got through to his left arm, but he sensed it coming and managed to avoid the worst of it. It opened his forearm from wrist to elbow, but the messy cut was shallow, and even as the sword went back for another thrust, he brought his boot heel down on its wielder’s instep. Bone crunched, the attacker screamed and faltered, and Bahzell slashed his throat.

Someone else disappeared from in front of him, and the bouncer leapt through the gap. He slotted into place between the two hradani, his broadsword trailing gory spray as he hacked down yet another attacker. The bowstring twanged again, and then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

Bahzell braced his shoulders against the mantel, feeling the fire’s heat against his back, and breath rasped in his lungs as his eyes darted about in search of fresh threats. But there were none. Sixteen bodies lay leaking blood into the sawdust, and he lowered his dagger slowly.

The bouncer sighed beside him and lowered his own weapon, and the Horse Stealer gave him a quick look of thanks, then stepped past him as Brandark sat down very carefully. His left leg was soaked with blood, and Bahzell knelt to rip his trouser leg open, then sagged in relief. The cut was ugly, but it was in the meaty part of the thigh, just below the hip, and it hadn’t gotten deep enough to sever muscles or tendons.

The Horse Stealer reached out to rip a bandage from a dead man’s tunic, but the bouncer shouldered him aside.

“See to yourself, hradani,” he said gruffly, and Bahzell slumped back on his heels and looked bemusedly down at his own bleeding arm.

Feet pattered down the stairs, and then strong, slender hands were ripping his sleeve apart. It was Zarantha, with Tothas’ quiver over her shoulder. The Spearman’s strung horsebow lay beside her in the sawdust as she muttered under her breath and probed the cut carefully, and Rekah came more slowly downstairs behind her with Tothas’ saber clutched in both hands.

He hissed in pain as Zarantha turned his arm to get better access, then looked away while she wound a clean cloth-gods only knew where she’d gotten it-and knotted it tight. Four of the bodies, he noted with curious detachment, had arrows in their backs or chests. He started to comment on the fact, but Zarantha gripped his chin and turned his head to examine his freely bleeding cheek.

“I thought,” she said between gritted teeth as she wiped blood from the wound, “that I told you two not to get into any brawls!”