The Sword of the South

by David Weber

  The cat-eyed wizard doubted anyone would ever know precisely how it had come to Torfo, but he knew far too many other things about it to worry about Wulfra’s pathetic aspirations, for the sword had never been something to be mastered. Even before its pommel had been shattered, it had served only those to whom it chose to answer and—also unlike Wulfra—he knew that the last hand it would ever answer to had died a thousand years and more ago. For that matter, when its pommel had shattered in the long-ago battle that killed its last rightful owner, its power had been forever twisted and snarled, tied into knots of chaotic energy eternally at war with one another and impossible to untwist. Which, he admitted, made Wencit’s current quest seem even more quixotic than the risk he’d taken to save Bahzell’s half-breed daughter. Why was Wencit so intent on gaining an artifact not even a wild wizard could take against its will when he must know it was useless for the purpose for which it had forged so long ago?

  Unless he’d found a way—or thought he had—to use it without touching its power at all? He had been studying it for many years now. Had he found a way to at least damp the universe-twisting energies radiating from it? To shut off its power—or, at least, that power’s ability to reach beyond the physical limits of its own structure—so that it could be taken safely from the wards which confined it once more at last?

  If he’d managed that much, he’d accomplished more than the Council of Carnadosa had achieved, but he was the world’s last wild wizard. It certainly wasn’t impossible that he had, and he was clearly worried about what might be brewing in Kontovar. Did he hope to use the sword as a rallying symbol when the final, inevitable conflict began? That possibility had occurred to the cat-eyed wizard, but it didn’t worry him. It might, indeed, prove a potent symbol, but symbols would be weak reeds in the tempest looming over Norfressa, and without its inherent power, even that sword was little more than edged metal. And in the meantime…

  It was unfortunate that the cat-eyed wizard couldn’t use it directly any more than Wencit, but he could use it to trap Wencit under Castle Torfo. To test him. And if he learned what he expected to learn, the Norfressans were welcome to make what use of the sword they liked, for they wouldn’t have long to use it.

  He watched appreciatively as Wulfra wove her spells. That was a really splendid demon she was raising, especially for one summoned without the aid of Sharnā or one of his priests. It was true that she couldn’t have done it without his own past help and tutelage, but it really was a creditable piece of work. Indeed, it was powerful enough to stand a remote chance against Wencit, though it was unlikely to injure him seriously. And, of course, that tiresome pain in the arse Bahzell had proven himself amply capable of dealing with far more powerful demons or even one of Krashnark’s greater devils. On the other hand, it was always possible Bahzell would have suffered a mischief before Wencit ever got that deep into the maze—there were, after all, those other guardians of Wulfra’s—and if he were to add a little something himself…

  He smiled at the thought. Yes, and without mentioning it to Wulfra. And it might be a good idea to install a trigger of his own, as well, one she didn’t know about. It might be amusing to set it off while she and Wencit were engaged and…distracted, as it were. Of course that would kill Wulfra—but, there! One had to make a few sacrifices.

  He propped his chin on the fist as he watched her. Really a very respectable piece of work for a practitioner of her caliber, he thought as he watched her pick up the spell-charged knife and advance upon her twisting captive. His cat-eyes never blinked as the sorceress raised the deadly blade, and all he felt as it descended was impatience for her to finish so that he could improve upon her craft.

  Then let Wencit of Rūm beware!

  * * *

  Kenhodan squinted up and grunted in disgust as night came with storm clouds. He watched the purple-black banks gathering, then shook his head mournfully. He simply wasn’t meant to leave a city dry shod, he decided.

  “Rain coming,” he said to Bahzell. “Again.”

  “Aye.” Bahzell’s glum tone mirrored Kenhodan’s disgust. “Chemalka’s after working overtime this trip.”

  “So it would appear. What do you think? An hour?”

  “Three hours—at least,” Chernion said.

  “Those clouds look eager, Elrytha,” Kenhodan said doubtfully.

  “They are. But see how clear it is to the northeast? Spring storms gather slow in the East Walls, and they don’t rain until they’re ready. We still have time before it reaches us.”

  “Aye, so we do.” Bahzell sounded noticeably more cheerful. “Time enough to be finding some cover, then, and I’ve a mind to be sleeping dry, if I can.”

  “Yes, and with dry firewood, too,” Kenhodan threw in.

  “I think not,” Wencit said. “If Elrytha can find us a secluded spot, we’ll pass the night in discrete invisibility.”

  “No fire?” Bahzell’s ears flattened unhappily.

  “None. Better cold and damp than dead, Bahzell.”

  “You’ve a nasty habit of being right,” Bahzell said sourly. “How say you, Elrytha? Would it happen you’re after knowing a good spot?”

  “I think so. There’s a cave up there,” Chernion said, pointing up a steep slope, “big enough for the horses—even the coursers—and us. We can even have a fire; there are fissures in the roof to carry the smoke, and it’s deep enough to hide the light.”

  She didn’t mention that she’d been making for the cave all day.

  “That’s after sounding good,” Bahzell said hopefully. “Wencit?”

  “It sounds suitable.” Wencit nodded to Chernion courteously. “You’re a woman of many talents, Elrytha.”

  “Not to match yours, if the tales are true. I can offer only what any border warden could.” She shrugged. “No more than that.”

  “I see. Well, lead us to your cave…Border Warden.”

  Chernion nodded and nudged her mare to begin the winding ascent of the steep hill, feeling the wizard’s strange eyes on her back. What was the old bastard’s problem? Well, it didn’t matter; she was committed, and there was no turning back.

  The horses scrambled up the hill as the clouds finished blotting out the sunset, and Kenhodan shivered in a chill breeze and glanced to the east. The tumbled foothills reared high, but the summits of the East Walls proper were far higher, vanishing in cloud, and white snow crowned them with a touch of merciless majesty.

  The cave was as Chernion recalled it, even to the pile of wood custom demanded of shelters in mountain country. In a region of sudden snow and howling wind, fire often spelled the difference between life and death. Most travelers left wood ready behind them; those who didn’t were always unpopular and sometimes suffered accidents on the trail.

  “I’ll fetch more wood,” she offered. “We’ll use a lot of that pile tonight.”

  She watched the wizard unobtrusively as she spoke.

  “An excellent idea,” he said calmly.

  “I’ll be back shortly, then,” she said, her voice serene as she throttled her frustration. Damn and blast and Sharnā seize the man! Every instinct told her he knew or suspected something, that he was playing some obscure, devious game. But how? Why? Surely a wizard as wily as he wouldn’t let a suspected assassin—or anyone he distrusted—slip away to mark their trail! Yet he just had, and she didn’t like things she couldn’t understand.

  She picked her way into a patch of trees and seated herself on a winter-felled oak, pondering from a position which let her watch the cave. Was this some sort of test? Would Wencit send one of the others to watch her? But no one came, and she drummed on her knee in frustration while she sniffed the approaching rain.

  It was safer to assume the worst than the best, she thought. So accept that Wencit had deduced she was an assassin. What possible motive could he have for allowing her to join his circle in that case?

  Her drumming fingers stilled, and she frowned. There were many forms of manipulation. She herself was
using Wencit, in a sense, in an effort to divine just how much Wulfra knew and how blatantly the baroness might have manipulated the Guild. Suppose that…suppose Wencit was using her at the same time? Suppose he wanted to give her information about Wulfra? Wanted to set the Guild at the sorceress’ throat? And, of course, by keeping Chernion under his eye, he could control what the assassins learned about him and his mission by controlling their eyes in his camp.

  She sighed and rose to begin gathering wood. Whatever his motives, they were too complex to divine with the information she had, but there was still time. She hadn’t lived this long without developing a sixth, seventh, and an eighth sense, and those very senses which warned her all was not as it appeared also told her Wencit had no immediate plan to destroy her. If he did suspect her, he was keeping her alive and hiding that suspicion. Which wasn’t to say he’d go out of his way to save her from anything else which might threaten, but she was accustomed to facing the world’s hazards on her own.

  She took her bearings and started back to the cave with a load of wood, grinning wryly. It seemed they were engaged in a game of wits in which he held a temporary advantage, and he was Wencit of Rūm. It was possible she’d finally met her match. Entirely possible this was the final game she wouldn’t survive—yet the challenge was invigorating.

  And she’d scored a few points. By now, Umaro and his thirty men would be on their trail, and they knew about the cave. Assassins often used it, which was why she’d maneuvered her present companions to this spot. She wouldn’t be alone and unsupported much longer—and even Wencit would find her hard to dispose of with Umaro at her back. Let the wizard chew on that!

  She considered ordering Umaro to attack that night, but put the idea away. They were too many unanswered questions. Curiosity was a good way for an assassin to get herself killed, but she knew she’d risk it. She meant to find out just how much Wencit knew, how he’d learned it, who he might have told, and why he’d let her live this long if he knew who or what she was.

  She wanted answers to all those questions, but most of all she was determined to discover the depth of Wulfra’s treachery before she struck.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Discoveries Along the South Road

  Kenhodan grimaced as he sipped scalding tea, peered out of the cave, and shivered. Sullen, slanting sheets of rain whipped the hillside shrubs like wet fur. The wind was out of the east, blowing the rain past the cave mouth rather than into it, but when they left they’d be riding straight into its teeth.

  “Come look at the morning,” he invited glumly as he heard Bahzell stretch and yawn behind him.

  “Tomanāk!” Bahzell rested a huge hand on his shoulder as he looked out beside him. “You’re after calling that a morning?”

  “It’s as close as were going to get, I’m afraid. It’s been coming down like that ever since I came on watch.”

  The massive cloud roof was lumpy with rain, and Kenhodan watched his breath plume in the chill air. Spring came late to the East Walls’ foothills.

  “I’m thinking as it’s going to be a mite unpleasant out there,” Bahzell said thoughtfully. “But it’s little choice we have, and the dog brothers will be liking it as little as we.”

  “You’re sure they’re out there?”

  “They’re out there.”

  They turned at Chernion’s positive voice, and she shrugged. She looked far fresher and more rested than her companions, and she wore the green beret of a border warden. The silver oak tree of its badge winked in the firelight as she shrugged again.

  “It’s not easy to lose assassins. They may fall behind, but they’ll be there whenever we stop.”

  “Aye, you’ve a point there. At the least, they’re after knowing we’re out of Sindor, and they’ve a fair idea as to where we’re headed. I’m thinking as they’ll know we’re not on the high road, so they’ll be after sweeping the rough lands. Once they start that, it’ll not be long before they’re after finding this cave.”

  “I agree,” she said calmly.

  “Then best we rouse Wencit and be getting started,” Bahzell said reluctantly.

  “No need for that,” Kenhodan said. “He’s already up and out.”

  “In that?” Bahzell jutted his chin at the rain.

  “In that. I asked him where he was off to, and he said he just felt like stretching his legs.”

  Kenhodan and Bahzell exchanged speaking glances but failed to notice the flicker in Chernion’s eyes.

  “Which way did he head?” she asked casually. “Perhaps we should go find him if we are in a hurry.”

  “He was headed into those oaks when I lost sight of him.” Kenhodan shrugged. “But I wouldn’t be in a hurry to get soaked looking for him. He’ll come back when he’s ready.”

  “I suppose so,” Chernion said, and returned to the saddlebag she’d been packing.

  Interesting, she thought, that the wizard’s constitutional took him directly toward the message cairn she’d left for Umaro.

  * * *

  “Did you see something?”

  “What? Where?”

  Two wet assassins huddled under an oak, shivering miserably.

  “Over there. Near the edge of the trees.”

  “I don’t see anything,” the second said after a moment. “And it’s light enough we’d see anything there was to see. Stop imagining things.”

  “Huh! At least imagining things keeps my brain warm,” the first snorted, “which is the only part of me that is!”

  Wencit of Rūm paused several yards from the sentries, wrapped in a vision-turning spell, and smiled to himself. He stood just long enough to pat the message cairn companionably, then turned back to the cave.

  * * *

  “And where is it you’ve been?” Bahzell greeted Wencit upon his return.

  “Out,” Wencit said blandly, accepting a cup of tea with a grateful nod. He looked like a soaked beggar as water dripped from his beard. His boots were muddy to the knee, and the old hat jammed onto his head had gathered enough water to turn down at the brim. With his sword and dagger hidden by his mud-spattered poncho, he hardly looked like a famous wizard.

  “And that’s all the answer we’ll be after getting?” Bahzell asked resignedly.

  “Of course it is,” Wencit said cheerfully. “If I meant to tell you more, I’d’ve started out telling you more. Really, Bahzell! All this traveling seems to be softening what brain you had to begin with.”

  “And aren’t you just the world’s most amusing fellow so early in the morning?” Bahzell rumbled. “Well, if you’re after feeling as clutch-fisted with news as ever, let’s be talking of something else. Like the weather.”

  “What about it?” Wencit asked, bending to lift his saddle as Byrchalka nudged him with a velvety nose.

  “I can see as how we’ve need to be moving on, but I’m thinking we’ll be lucky to be making three leagues in a day cross-country in this.” Bahzell paused, and Wencit nodded for him to continue. “Well, it’s in my mind we might be taking ourselves back to the South Road, instead. I’ve little doubt they’ve guessed by now we took to the back roads. They’ll be hunting us places like this, not on the high road, so it’s likely as we’d make up time and throw them off again for a while, too.”

  “That’s sensible.” Wencit nodded. “Border Warden, can we get to the South Road without too much delay?”

  “Probably.” Chernion met his eyes coolly and felt a little flicker of amusement in his gaze. In an odd way, she too, felt amused by the elaborate game she was now certain they were playing. “I could get us to the road in twenty minutes, normally. In this, though—”

  She shrugged eloquently.

  “I see. And your opinion, Kenhodan?”

  “I’d like to spend the day rolled in a blanket by the fire, but I gather that’s not an option. If we really have to travel, we might as well use the high road. That’s what it’s there for.”

  “Not gracious, perhaps, but to the point. All right.
We’ll take our chances on the high road.”

  Wencit got the saddle across Byrchalka’s back—not without some assistance from the tall courser—and tightened the girth. Then he tossed his saddle bags up to follow and poured the last bit of the kettle’s tea into his mess kit cup and stood sipping it while the others completed their preparations.

  Chernion puzzled over the strangely unthreatening tension between her and Wencit as she tightened her own saddle girth. She wondered if he saw no need to “threaten” her simply because he considered her a negligible danger. The idea hurt her pride, but she made herself admit the possibility. What would be really nice to know, though, was what he’d seen and done out there in the rain.

  She fastened her bridle and glanced around. The others were ready, and she toyed with the idea of slipping out to her message cairn to check for tampering. But there was no reasonable excuse, so she swung up into the saddle just inside the cave, instead, and waited.

  Bahzell pushed up beside her—still on foot, one hand resting on Walsharno’s neck. The cave’s roof was almost twelve feet above its floor, but that was still too low for someone his size to mount a courser Walsharno’s size. Wencit could manage Byrchalka’s saddle, as long as he minded his head, but she and Kenhodan had ample room, and so did the packhorses. She felt like a child on a pony beside the towering courser as she glanced over her shoulder and saw the pack animals looking reproachfully at the hradani’s back. She watched Kenhodan climb onto Glamhandro’s back, arranging an extra cloak carefully over his harp case while the wizard adjusted his dripping hat.

  “Very well, Elrytha,” Wencit said with a nod. “Let’s be going.”

  She clucked to her horse, and the mare moved unhappily but obediently out into the sodden morning.

  Like her companions, Chernion favored a Sothōii-style poncho in this sort of weather, and she was grateful for its warmth as cold water pelted her shoulders. It did little to keep her face dry, however, and she felt the long cock pheasant’s feather in her beret whip in the wind as she led the way downhill.