Vows And Honor Book 1: The Oathbound

by The Oathbound [lit]

  "More than a chance, nomad—I'd lay money on

  it. I'm sure enough that I haven't even tried luring

  your lovely little partner into my bed—I don't make

  love to prospective employers."

  "Well!" Tarma was plainly startled. "I will be

  damned ..."

  "I hope not," Justin chuckled, "or I'll have to

  find another set of prospects!"

  They got a commission with another caravan to

  act as guards—courtesy of their friends. On their

  way they detoured briefly when Need called them

  to rid a town of a monster, a singularly fruitless

  effort, for the monster was slain by a would-be

  "hero" the very day they arrived.

  After that they skirmished with banditti and a

  half-trained magician's ex-apprentice who thought

  robbing caravans was an easier task than memoriz-

  ing spells. Kethry "slapped his hands," as she put

  it, and left him with a geas to build walls for the

  temple of Sun-Lord Resoden until he should learn

  better.

  When the caravan was safely gotten home, they

  found an elderly mage of the Blue Mountains school

  who wanted some physical protection as he returned

  to his patron, and was delighted with the bonus of

  having a sorceress of a different discipline to con-

  verse with.

  During these journeys Tarma and Warrl were

  learning to integrate themselves as a fighting team;

  somewhat to Tarma's amazement, her other-worldly

  teachers were inclined to include him whenever he

  chose. After her initial shock—and, to some extent,

  dismay—she had discovered that they did have a

  great deal in common, especially in attitudes. He

  was, perhaps, a bit more cynical than she was, but

  he was also older. He never would admit exactly

  how old he was; when Tarma persisted, he seized

  one of her hands in his powerful jaws and mind-

  sent, My years are enough, mindmate, to suffice. She

  never asked again.

  But now they had fallen on dry times; they had

  wound up on the estate of Viscount Hathkel, with

  no one needing their particular talents and no cit-

  ies nearby. The money they had earned must now

  be at least partially spent in provisioning them to

  someplace where they were likelier to find work.

  That was the plan, anyway—until Need woke

  from her apparent slumbers with a vengeance.

  Tarma goaded her gray Shin'a'in warsteed into

  another burst of speed, urging her on with hand

  and voice (though not spur—never spur; that would

  have been an insult the battlesteed would not toler-

  ate) as if she were pursued by the Jackels of Dark-

  ness. It had been more than long enough since she

  had first become Kal'enedral for her hair to have

  regrown—now her long, ebony braids streamed be-

  hind her; close enough to catch one of them rode

  Kethry. Kethry's own mare was a scant half a length

  after her herd-sister.

  Need had left Kethry almost completely alone

  save for that one prod almost from the time they'd

  left the Liha'irden camp. Both of them had nearly

  forgotten just what bearing her could mean. They

  had been reminded this morning, when Need had

  woken Kethry almost before the sun rose, and had

  been driving the sorceress (and so her blood-oath

  sister as well) in this direction all day. At first it

  had been a simple pull, as she had often felt before.

  Tarma had teased, and Kethry had grumbled; then

  they had packed up their camp and headed for the

  source. Kethry had even had time enough to sum-

  mon a creature of the Ethereal Plane to scout and

  serve as a set of clairvoyant "eyes" for them. But

  the call had grown more urgent as the hours passed,

  not less so—increasing to the point where by mid-

  afternoon it was actually causing Kethry severe

  mental pain, pain that even Tarma was subject to,

  through the oath-bond. That was when they got

  Warrl up onto the special carry-pad they'd rigged

  for him behind Tarma's saddle, and prepared to

  make some speed. They urged their horses first

  into a fast walk, then a trot, then as sunset neared,

  into a full gallop. By then Kethry was near-blind

  with mental anguish, and no longer capable of even

  directing their Ethereal ally, much less questioning

  it.

  Need would not be denied in this; Moonsong

  k'Vala, the Hawkbrother Adept they had met, had

  told them nothing less than the truth. Kethry was

  soul-bonded to the sword, just as surely as Tarma

  was bonded to her Goddess or Warrl to Tarma.

  Kethry was recalling now with some misgiving that

  Moonsong had also said that she had not yet found

  the limit to which it would bind itself to her—and

  if this experience was any indication of the future,

  she wasn't sure she wanted to.

  All that was of any importance at the moment

  was that there was a woman within Need's sensing

  range in grave peril—peril of her life, by the way

  the blade was driving Kethry. And they had no

  choice but to answer the call.

  Tarma continued to urge Hellsbane on; they were

  coming to a cultivated area, and surely their goal

  couldn't be far. Ahead of them on the road they

  were following loomed a walled village; part and

  parcel of a manor-keep, a common arrangement in

  these parts. The gates were open; the fields around

  empty of workers. That was odd—very odd. It was

  high summer, and there should have been folk out

  in the fields, weeding and tending the irrigation

  ditches. There was no immediate sign of trouble,

  but as they neared the gates, it was plain just who

  the woman they sought was—

  Bound to a scaffold high enough to be visible

  through the open gates, they could see a young,

  dark-haired woman dressed in white, almost like a

  sacrificial victim. The last rays of the setting sun

  touched her with color—touched also the heaped

  wood beneath the platform on which she stood,

  making it seem as if her pyre already blazed up.

  Lining the mud-plastered walls of the keep and

  crowding the square inside the gate were scores of

  folk of every class and station, all silent, all waiting.

  Tarma really didn't give a fat damn about what

  they were waiting for, though it was a good bet that

  they were there for the show of the burning. She

  coaxed a final burst of speed out of her tired mount,

  sending her shooting ahead of Kethry's as they

  passed the gates, and bringing her close in to the

  platform. Once there, she swung Hellsbane around

  in a tight circle and drew her sword, placing her-

  self between the woman on the scaffold and the

  men with the torches to set it alight.

  She knew she was an imposing sight, even cov-

  ered with sweat and the dust of the road; hawk-

  faced, intimidating, ice-blue eyes glaring. Her

 
clothing alone should tell them she was nothing to

  fool with—it was obviously that of a fighting mer-

  cenary; plain brown leathers and brigandine armor.

  Her sword reflected the dying sunlight so that she

  might have been holding a living flame in her hand.

  She said nothing; her pose said it all for her.

  Nevertheless, one of the men started forward,

  torch in hand.

  "I wouldn't," Kethry was framed in the arch of

  the gate, silhouetted against the fiery sky; her mount

  rock-still, her hands glowing with sorcerous energy.

  "If Tarma doesn't get you, I will."

  "Peace," a tired, gray-haired man in plain, dusty-

  black robes stepped forward from the crowd, hold-

  ing his arms out placatingly, and motioned the

  torch-bearer to give way. "Istan, go back to your

  place. Strangers, what brings you here at this time

  of all times?"

  Kethry pointed—a thin strand of glow shot from

  her finger and touched the ropes binding the cap-

  tive on the platform. The bindings loosed and fell

  from her, sliding down her body to lie in a heap at

  her feet. The woman swayed and nearly fell, catch-

  ing herself at the last moment with one hand on the

  stake she had been bound to. A small segment of

  the crowd—mostly women—stepped forward as if

  to help, but fell back again as Tarma swiveled to

  face them.

  "I know not what crime you accuse this woman

  of, but she is innocent of it," Kethry said to him,

  ignoring the presence of anyone else. "That is what

  brings us here."

  A collective sigh rose from the crowd at her words.

  Tarma watched warily to either side, but it ap-

  peared to be a sigh of relief rather than a gasp of

  arousal. She relaxed the white-knuckled grip she

  had on her sword-hilt by the merest trifle.

  "The Lady Myria is accused of the slaying of her

  lord," the robed man said quietly. "She called upon

  her ancient right to summon a champion to her

  defense when the evidence against her became over-

  whelming. I, who am priest of Felwether, do ask

  you—strangers, will you champion the Lady and

  defend her in trial-by-combat?"

  Kethry began to answer in the affirmative, but

  the priest shook his head negatively. "No, lady-

  mage, by ancient law you are bound from the field;

  neither sorcery nor sorcerous weapons such as I see

  you bear may be permitted in trial-by-combat."

  "Then—"

  "He wants to know if I'll do it, she'enedra," Tarma

  croaked, taking a fiendish pleasure in the start the

  priest gave at the sound of her harsh voice. "I know

  your laws, priest, I've passed this way before. I ask

  you in my turn—if my partner, by her skills, can

  prove to you the lady's innocence, will you set her

  free and call off the combat, no matter how far it

  has gotten?"

  "I so pledge, by the Names and the Powers," the

  priest nodded—almost eagerly.

  "Then I will champion this lady."

  About half the spectators cheered and rushed

  forward. Three older women edged past Tarma to

  bear the fainting woman back into the keep. The

  rest, except for the priest, moved off slowly and

  reluctantly, casting thoughtful and measuring looks

  back at Tarma. Some of them seemed friendly;

  most did not.

  "What—"

  "Was that all about?" That was as far as Tarma

  got before the priest interposed himself between

  the partners.

  "Your pardon, mage-lady, but you may not speak

  with the champion from this moment forward. Any

  message you may have must pass through me."

  "Oh, no, not yet, priest." Tarma urged Hellsbane

  forward and passed his outstretched hand. "I told

  you I know your laws—and the ban starts at sun-

  down—Greeneyes, pay attention, I have to talk fast.

  You're going to have to figure out just who the real

  culprit is, the best I can possibly do is buy you

  time. This business is combat to the death for the

  champion. I can choose just to defeat my challeng-

  ers, but they have to kill me. And the longer you

  take, the more likely that is."

  "Tarma, you're better than anybody here!"

  "But not better than any twenty—or thirty."

  Tarma smiled crookedly. "The rules of the game,

  she'enedra, are that I keep fighting until nobody is

  willing to challenge me. Sooner or later they'll wear

  me out and I'll go down."

  "What?"

  "Shush, I knew what I was getting into. You're as

  good at your craft as I am at mine—I've just given

  you a bit of incentive. Take Warrl." The tall, lupine

  creature jumped to the ground from behind Tarma

  where he'd been clinging to the special pad with

  his retractile claws. "He might well be of some use.

  Do your best, veshta'cha; there're two lives depend-

  ing on you."

  The priest interposed himself again. "Sunset,

  champion," he said firmly, putting his hand on her

  reins.

  Tarma bowed her head, and allowed him to lead

  her and her horse away, Kethry staring dumb-

  founded after them.

  "All right, let's take this from the very beginning."

  Kethry was in the Lady Myria's bower, a soft and

  colorful little corner of an otherwise drab fortress.

  There were no windows—no drafts stirred the bright,

  tapestries on the walls, or caused the flames of the

  beeswax candles to flicker. The walls were thick

  stone covered with plaster, warm by winter, cool

  by summer. The furnishings were of light yellow

  wood, padded with plump feather cushions. In one

  corner stood a cradle, watched over broodingly by

  the lady herself. The air was pleasantly scented

  with herbs and flowers. Kethry wondered how so

  pampered a creature could have gotten herself into

  such a pass.

  "It was two days ago. I came here to lie down in

  the afternoon. I—was tired; I tire easily since Syrtin

  was born. I fell asleep."

  Close up, the Lady proved to be several years

  Kethry's junior; scarcely past her midteens. Her

  dark hair was lank and without luster, her skin

  pale. Kethry frowned at that, and wove a tiny spell

  with a gesture and two whispered words while

  Myria was speaking. The creature of the Ethereal

  Plane who'd agreed to serve as their scout was still

  with her—it would have taken a far wilder ride

  than they had made to lose it. And now that they

  were doing something about the lady's plight, Need

  was quiescent; leaving Kethry able to think and

  work again.

  The answer to her question came quickly as a

  thin voice breathed whispered words into her ear.

  Kethry grimaced angrily. "Lady's eyes, child, I

  shouldn't wonder that you tire—you're still torn up

  from the birthing! What kind of a miserable excuse

  for a Healer have you got here, anyway?"


  "We have no Healer, lady," one of the three older

  women who had borne Myria back into the keep

  rose from her seat behind Kethry and stood be-

  tween them, challenge written in her stance. She

  had a kind, but careworn face; her gray and buff

  gown was of good stuff, but old-fashioned in cut.

  Kethry guessed that she must be Myria's compan-

  ion, an older relative, perhaps. "The Healer died

  before my dove came to childbed and her lord did

  not see fit to replace him. We had no use for a

  Healer, or so he claimed. After all, he kept no great

  number of men-at-arms; he warred with no one. He

  felt that birthing was a perfectly normal procedure

  and surely didn't require the expensive services of

  a Healer."

  "Now, Katran—"

  "It is no more than the truth! He cared more for

  his horses than for you! He replaced the farrier

  quickly enough when he left!"

  "His horses were of more use to him," the girl

  said bitterly, then bit her lip. "There, you see, that

  is what brought me to this pass—one too many

  careless remarks let fall among the wrong ears."

  Kethry nodded, liking the girl; the child was not

  the pampered pretty she had first thought. No win-

  dows to this chamber, only the one entrance; a good

  bit more like a cell than a bower, it occurred to her.

  A comfortable cell, but a cell still. She stood,

  smoothed her buff-colored robe with an unconscious

  gesture, and unsheathed the sword that seldom left

  her side.

  "Lady, what—" Katran stood, startled by the

  gesture.

  "Peace; I mean no ill. Here," Kethry said, bend-

  ing over Myria and placing the blade in the startled

  girl's hands, "hold this for a bit."