by David Weber
The footing in the ravine was bad. The ground sloped, but not enough for good drainage, and the soft ground sucked at the horses’ hooves as they picked their way across. There were firm spots, but no trail, and even with Bahzell probing carefully ahead for a path, one packhorse slithered to its knees at one point and had to be rescued.
Once across the morass, they faced the stream itself. It never washed higher than Kenhodan’s stirrups, but the current was bad and the footing worse. Bahzell stayed on the upstream side, guiding the packhorses carefully, but they literally had to feel their way across. The courser took it calmly; the packhorses most definitely did not, and even Glamhandro was clearly relieved when he finally emerged on the far side.
But they emerged only to face the trail out, and it reared up from the very bank of the stream, allowing the horses no place to stop and gather themselves for the climb. It writhed up the western cliff like something a snake might disdain, and the western side was more than a hundred feet higher than that to the east. Kenhodan and Wencit dismounted—even the courser would have found that climb taxing with someone in his saddle—and followed Bahzell up that slope on foot. Much of it was almost vertical, and even with switchbacks the trail was so steep the packhorses were badly blown before they topped out through a deep, narrow notch into a dense clump of willows.
Kenhodan stopped gratefully to survey the ambush site. Bahzell was right; it was perfect. No one could cross the stream quickly, nor could they retreat rapidly under fire once across. The only way out would be up and through their attackers, and the tortuous trail was hardly conducive to that. It was, he thought, admirably suited to their purposes, and he said so.
“Aye,” Bahzell agreed. “But if Chernion’s after being as good as folk say he is—and I’ve no doubt at all, at all that he is—we’d best take no chances.”
“And you’d better get ready,” Wencit said, head cocked as if to listen.
“Ah? So it’s on their way they are, then?”
“Some of them, at least. I can only feel one clearly—he seems to be a good hater. Strange. Dog brothers are usually rather dispassionate.”
“It’s a guess I’ll risk at the cause of his anger.” Bahzell smiled. “It’s no easy pace we’ve set them, and I’ve no doubt they’ll be feeling it.” He looked out over the ravine thoughtfully. “Would it happen we’re after wanting prisoners, Wencit?”
“No.” The wizard glanced in the direction of Bahzell’s gaze. “Even if they swore Oath to Tomanāk, it’s unlikely dog brothers would honor it, and you know you can never be certain you’ve found all their weapons. For that matter, they wouldn’t tell us anything without more ‘convincing’ than Tomanāk would like, Bahzell.”
“Aye, no doubt you’ve the right of that,” Bahzell rumbled in agreement. “But if we’ll not be keeping any of them, then here’s how I’m thinking to handle it, if you’re willing.”
The others leaned closer, listening, and their smiles were not pleasant.
* * *
Rosper couldn’t have faulted Bahzell’s explanation of his rage, yet it wasn’t simply the narrow, twisting trail and mud that infuriated him. No, the signs left by his quarry were even more galling.
They’d slowed. They were no longer fleeing for their lives, but he hadn’t realized that until he’d already exhausted his horses. Three of them had foundered, and five more were close to it. If they didn’t catch up soon, their remaining stock would go heels over crupper—and Bahzell’s decision to slow would show the entire Guild that Rosper had been wrong to expend his mounts.
Rosper didn’t know if Bahzell had slowed because he thought he’d shaken the pursuit or because he was now willing to be overtaken. In his present mood, he favored the former thesis, but it no longer mattered. His decisions were already made.
His men sensed it, and they were unhappy. This pursuit was most unassassinlike. Worse, all of them knew Bahzell’s and Wencit’s reputations, and none were anxious to meet either of them when they were expecting it. It was common knowledge that the Belhadan chapter had tried to kill Bahzell thirty years ago when he’d first settled in Belhadan; there was no Belhadan chapter today. The possible connection was daunting, and while the thought of killing Wencit might be professionally attractive, there were rumors—denied, for the most part, by the Guild’s senior members—that it, too, had been tried before.
But the scorpions of Sharnā rode Rosper, and it was risky to cross him in such a mood. He’d cut his way to his present post, and those who roused his ire tended to draw perilous assignments…or meet still speedier ends.
They reached the ravine and halted. The targets’ tracks led into it, but not even Rosper was prepared to race blindly into such terrain. He studied the ravine instead, holding himself still with an effort. Either Bahzell was atop the far cliff, or he wasn’t—but how to find out without suffering a mischief or wasting time? The day was wearing on, their horses were pulling up lame, and the thought of letting his prey get still further ahead of him galled his soul.
Rosper considered for another long moment, then grunted.
“Change horses,” he ordered brusquely.
“Your pardon, Rosper,” one man said nervously, “but these are our last decent mounts. If we lose them out there—” he nodded at the ravine “—we can’t pursue on the other side.”
“True, Lairdnos,” Rosper grated, “but if there’s trouble crossing, we’ll need fresh horses to get through it. There’s only one way to see if they’re waiting up there, and I’m not going to sit here forever just in case!”
Lairdnos dismounted unhappily, and he and his fellows exchanged glances as they changed saddles to their freshest horses. None were eager to discover what was waiting for them, and Rosper sensed their uneasy support for Lairdnos’ caution. His anger latched on to their unhappiness like igniting banefire.
“Lairdnos!”
The rangy assassin’s mouth went dry. He knew what Rosper was about to say, and he bitterly regretted having opened his mouth. Unfortunately, he’d worked too long and too closely with Chernion, who would never have sought revenge on someone for simply questioning the wisdom of one of his plans. Of course, he wouldn’t have had to question Chernion’s wisdom in a case like this.
“They may be waiting at there.” Rosper pointed to the willows atop the far cliff. “So to be safe, we’ll send up a scout. You.”
“Yes, Rosper.” Lairdnos saluted and obeyed, for his only alternative was death. The dog brothers didn’t take mutiny lately, however questionable an order might be.
He picked his cautious way into the ravine, and his palms were damp as his eyes flickered over the brink of the cliff with a dreadful fascination. He didn’t care for how thick those willows were.…
He forded the stream in a rush of water and spring birdsong. His bridle jingled, and his horse snorted as it plunged through the rumbling rapids. It caught his fear, and Lairdnos felt it tremble. He tried to soothe it, but his heart wasn’t in it, for Lairdnos—dealer in death—had no wish to die here.
The climbing trail was as bad as he’d feared, and his horse made heavy going, although the twisting grade was at least clear of loose rock or other treacherous footing. Lairdnos tried to feel grateful for small favors and kept his eyes on the trail. The last thing he needed was for his horse to stumble so that the two of them plummeted back into the depths of the ravine. He’d worry about the top if he reached it.
And then he did reach it, abruptly, and drew rein nervously under the lip of the ravine. He wanted his horse as recovered as possible before he poked his nose into that narrow notch. If anything happened, he intended to clap in his heels and dash past whatever awaited him. He’d done his part; let the others figure out why he didn’t come back to report!
He waited as long as he dared, then eased his sword in its sheath and clucked to his horse, starting it forward. The smell of horse sweat was strong in his nostrils, and his own sweat trickled down his spine. He moved into the willow shadows with
one hand on his hilt and his nerves on fire.
His sharp, well trained eyes peered to either side. The westering sun slanted bloodily under the branches, but the inner shadows were dense, and he eyed the darker areas with special care, for the Bloody Hand would have hidden himself well.
Nothing.
He glanced up, searching the canopy of thin branches above the trail, even though willows made unlikely perches for overhead attackers.
Nothing.
He rode a hundred yards, bending to sweep the shadows carefully. Still nothing! Elated by survival, he turned back to the clifftop to report.
Rosper watched his scout reappear in the willow-crowned cleft, arms semaphoring a message, and muffled a curse. His first judgment had been correct; the targets didn’t plan to counterattack, or they would never have passed up this spot. Now his over cautiousness had cost another hour of fading light for no good reason, and fresh frustration churned his belly like acid. He waved a return message, then gestured for the others to mount, grinning sourly at their relieved expressions.
Lairdnos watched Rosper’s arms intently, reading the order to move on for another three hundred yards to be doubly certain, and swung his horse obediently, pleased to still be breathing.
* * *
Unfortunately for Lairdnos, anyone who could hide on the Wind Plain found ample scope for concealment in a wood. As the assassin passed a drift of winter willow fronds, piled untidily over a frost killed branch, a long arm snaked from behind. Before he hit the ground, a hook knife opened a second mouth across his throat.
Kenhodan slipped from another drift of brush with no more sound than a cat and moved to the brink of the cliff, careful to conceal himself as he bent his bow. He heard a scuffing sound as Bahzell dragged the body aside, and then steel whispered as the hradani drew his greatsword and spoke softly.
“When I take the leader—then start with the last one.”
Kenhodan nodded and nocked an arrow, leaning forward to peer through his screen of willow branches.
The remaining assassins had started up the trail, and he heard their voices clearly, small and distant through willow rustle as they discussed the difficulties of the hunt. He inhaled the damp smell of leaves, earth, and fresh breeze, grateful for whatever change had taken place inside him. The berserker in his soul had been tamed. He was like a sword—hard-edged, empty of all except purpose.
Hooves thudded and rattled as the assassins worked steadily upward and Kenhodan studied the leader. The man’s lips were tight, his flushed face angry. The way he gripped his hilt showed his eagerness, just as his drooping men and staggering horses showed how ruthlessly he’d driven them.
Kenhodan raised his bow. He heard the blowing of their horses, the jingling of bridles, the creaking of tack. He saw sweat stains on their salt streaked black leathers and glanced at Bahzell.
* * *
Rosper’s horse heaved over the edge and paused.
The assassin urged him impatiently on, but the horse hesitated. Too late, professional alertness clawed at Rosper’s anger and he peered ahead, half-blind as the setting sun slashed his eyes. Another horse stood there, head hanging, and something lay beside it.
Rosper’s trade had taught him to recognize a body. He started to shout a warning—and Bahzell loomed from the shadows like an image of death.
Light stabbed under the willows, gleaming on a huge sword that burned red in the sunset, glittering on the gold embroidery of a green surcoat. The hradani’s ears were back, his lips drawn up from strong teeth, and an icy dread burned Rosper’s spine even as his own sword flew from its sheath.
“Greetings, Dog Brother,” Bahzell grated. “Give my regards to Sharnā!”
Normally, a mounted man has the advantage over a foe on foot. He’s higher in the air, with advantages of leverage and position. He can use his horse’s strength against his opponent while he rains down blows.
Normally.
But Rosper’s theoretical advantages were meaningless. Bahzell’s height canceled most of them; his strength canceled the rest. And the notch of the trail was too confining for Rosper to evade him.
The assassin had time to shout one warning, then the singing steel was upon him. He blocked the first whistling blow desperately, and his blade rang like an anvil. A bow sang, and he knew Chernion had been right to warn him against his temper.
He’d wanted to meet the Bloody Hand; he would not profit from the meeting.
* * *
Kenhodan’s arrow snapped through the sunlight like a hornet, struck with a lethal beauty. Fletching whined, flashing through an assassin’s throat, and the dog brother gave one gurgle of horrified surprise and plummeted to the ravine’s floor.
Kenhodan’s eyes never flickered. He nocked another arrow.
* * *
Rosper was outmatched. Worse, he knew it. One touch of his poisoned steel would be enough to kill any human, but Bahzell was a hradani. That wasn’t enough to make him immune to the deadly toxin, but he seemed unconcerned by the possibility. He flashed his blade about like a fencing master, and Rosper’s frantically interposed sword rang as he managed to keep it from his flesh a dozen times, always by the thickness of an eyelash. Sweat poured down his face, and his jaw clenched as he realized the hradani was toying with him. Bahzell wasn’t trying to kill him—not really. He was keeping him in play, instead, to block the trail while that deadly bowman picked off his men one by one.
Then the hradani’s blade swept around in a flat figure eight, smashing through Rosper’s sword three inches from the hilt. The shattered steel whined away, flipping over the raine’s lip with one last flash of reflected sunset, and Bahzell Bahnakson smiled wolfishly upon his enemy.
“Goodbye, Chernion,” he said, and his sword screamed in a backhand arc. The assassin’s head leapt from his shoulders, and Bahzell watched the corpse topple from the saddle and frowned. He’d expected more sword skill from Norfressa’s foremost assassin.
Beside him, Kenhodan’s bow sang once more and a scream answered. Then there was silence, and Bahzell glanced up as the bowman stepped from the shadows.
“Six,” he said flatly. “All dead.”
“Good.” Bahzell strode to the edge and looked down. Six bodies lay on the ravine’s floor at the foot of the slope, each marked for death by a single arrow. “Neat work, that,” he said professionally.
“What next?” Kenhodan unbent his bow, and his voice was very calm.
“I’m thinking we’d best collect your arrows—and their horses. It’s not as if we’re after needing them, but it’s plain murder to leave them, and no fault of theirs they’re after being here.
“True, no horse has such poor taste as to carry an assassin willingly,” Kenhodan said, his voice returning to normal.
“Except to the gallows,” Bahzell agreed grimly. “Except to the gallows.”
* * *
“Krahana fly away with their souls! Sharnā whip them with scorpions!” Wulfra spat the curses as she blanked her gramerhain spitefully. Damn and blast those incompetent, ham-handed, clumsy—!
She bit off the thought and her nostrils flared as she inhaled deeply. She’d lost only the cost of their hire, she reminded herself—high, but not unreasonably so. She hadn’t even warned Wencit, for her earlier attacks had already done that, she thought, and smiled sourly with bitter humor.
One good thing had come of it; the assassins had lost too many men for Chernion to give up, whether the Guild was paid or not. Not that Wulfra was even tempted to contemplate reneging; clients didn’t shortchange the dog brothers.
No, she’d pay…and tell Chernion she considered the contract closed. If Chernion ─ or the Guild Council ─wished to continue, that was their affair.
Wulfra smiled more broadly at that thought. It really was amusing, in a grim sort of way. Even if Wencit succeeded in his mission, with a high probability of her own unpleasant demise, the assassins would be waiting. It would almost be as if they were avenging her, and the baron
ess permitted herself a mirthless chuckle at the thought.
Now how best to phrase the message? It must convey the necessary information with the proper air of condolence, but expressed in a way guaranteed to rouse Chernion’s fury.
Fortunately, Wulfra of Torfo was a past mistress of the poisoned pen.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Meetings Along the Way
“Well, at least Chemalka’s decided to stop raining on us,” Kenhodan said. “For now.”
He leaned against Glamhandro’s tall side, chewing on the final bite of sandwich from the lunch for which they’d paused. A last tendril of steam rose from the well-quenched ashes of the fire over which tea had been brewed and his head was back as he gazed up into the branches. The massacre of Rosper’s assassins lay a full day’s journey behind them, and he was profoundly glad to see the sun through those branches. The night after the ambush had given way to a morning of hard, driving rain, even more miserable than the misty precipitation they’d endured earlier, but spring weather was nothing if not changeable in the South March. Now sunlight probed down through openings in the canopy, touching the Forest of Hev with a warm golden glow, gleaming on drifts of fallen leaves still glistening with rainwater and touching tree trunks with a soft-edged patina of light. The air was warmer than it had been, as well, and the breeze tossing those overhead branches smelled crisp and clean.
The trail, unfortunately, was still a slick, muddy slot courtesy of all the water which had tumbled out of the sky before the sun deigned to put in its belated appearance. At least they’d left the ravine behind, however, and the lower, secondary growth around the stream had turned back into the towering trunks of a mature old-growth forest. That left more space around each individual tree and made the going much easier on either side of the trail, but the tree canopy also choked out any possibility of undergrowth or grass. That wouldn’t have been a problem under most circumstances, but he and his companions had acquired an additional eighteen horses whose riders no longer required their services. Rosper’s assassins hadn’t anticipated a lengthy journey off the high road away from posting houses and livery stables, and they’d packed relatively little in the way of grain for their mounts. As a consequence, those mounts’ new owners had been forced to put all of their recently inflated string of horses on short rations, and the captured animals, already showing the physical consequences of hard usage, weren’t likely to find their condition improved under the circumstances.
